th
her, or the little maid. This evening she rang for the little maid, May,
who would rather have been writing to her young man, but liked to oblige
the nice old lady, of whom the kitchen was fond.

It was all very well for Grandmama, Mrs. Hilary thought, stormily
revolting against that placidity by the hearth. All very well for
Grandmama to sit by the fire contented with books and papers and games
and sleep, unbitten by the murderous hatred of time that consumed
herself. Everyone always thought that about Grandmama, that things were
all very well for her, and perhaps they were. For time could do little
more hurt to Grandmama. She need not worry about killing time; time would
kill her soon enough, if she left it alone. Time, so long to Mrs. Hilary,
was short now to Grandmama, and would soon be gone. As to May, the little
maid, to her time was fleeting, and flew before her face, like a bird she
could never catch....

Grandmama and May were playing casino. A bitter game, for you build and
others take, and your labour is but lost that builded; you sow and others
reap. But Grandmama and May were both good-tempered and ladylike. They
played prettily together, age and youth.

Why did life play one these tricks, Mrs. Hilary cried within herself.
What had she done to life, that it should have deserted her and left her
stranded on the shores of a watering-place, empty-handed and pitiful,
alone with time the enemy, and with Grandmama, for whom it was all very
well?

2

In the Crescent music blared out--once more the Army, calling for strayed
sheep in the rain.

"Glory for you, glory for me!" it shouted. And then, presently:

"Count--your--blessings! Count them one by one!
And it will _surprise_ you what the Lord has done!"

Grandmama, as usual, was beating time with her hand on the arm of her
chair.

"Detestable creatures," said Mrs. Hilary, with acrimony, as usual.

"But a very racy tune, my dear," said Grandmama, placidly, as usual.

"Blood! Blood!" sang the Army, exultantly, as usual.

May looked happy, and her attention strayed from the game. The Army was
one of the joys, one of the comic turns, of this watering-place.

"Six and two are eight," said Grandmama, and picked them up, recalling
May's attention. But she herself still beat time to the merry music-hall
tune and the ogreish words.

Grandmama could afford to be tolerant, as she sat there, looking over the
edge into eternity, with Time, his fangs