. His
little binding apparatus was before him. In his fingers was a huge
upholsterer's needle threaded with twine, a brad-awl lay at his elbow,
on the floor beside him was a great pile of pamphlets, the pages uncut.
Old Grannis bought the "Nation" and the "Breeder and Sportsman." In the
latter he occasionally found articles on dogs which interested him. The
former he seldom read. He could not afford to subscribe regularly to
either of the publications, but purchased their back numbers by the
score, almost solely for the pleasure he took in binding them.

"What you alus sewing up them books for, Mister Grannis?" asked Maria,
as she began rummaging about in Old Grannis's closet shelves. "There's
just hundreds of 'em in here on yer shelves; they ain't no good to you."

"Well, well," answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, "I--I'm
sure I can't quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, a--a--it
occupies one, you know. I don't smoke; it takes the place of a pipe,
perhaps."

"Here's this old yellow pitcher," said Maria, coming out of the closet
with it in her hand. "The handle's cracked; you don't want it; better
give me it."

Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he
had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to
trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years.

"Oh, that pitcher--well, Maria, I--I don't know. I'm afraid--you see,
that pitcher----"

"Ah, go 'long," interrupted Maria Macapa, "what's the good of it?"

"If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather--" he rubbed his chin,
perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were
gone.

"Why, what's the good of it?" persisted Maria. He could give no
sufficient answer. "That's all right," she asserted, carrying the
pitcher out.

"Ah--Maria--I say, you--you might leave the door--ah, don't quite shut
it--it's a bit close in here at times." Maria grinned, and swung the
door wide. Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was
becoming unbearable.

"Got any junk?" cried Maria at Miss Baker's door. The little old lady
was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting
idly in her lap.

"Now, Maria," she said plaintively, "you are always after junk; you know
I never have anything laying 'round like that."

It was true. The retired dressmaker's tiny room was a marvel of
neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoon