here her mother was
changing the baby's frock: "Mamma! Have I got a grandfather?"

Mrs. Crosby glanced furtively at the round eyes of the baby, and took
the precaution of smothering him in billows of white lawn before
replying, rather softly: "Yes, dear; Papa's father is living. Why do
you ask?"

"I saw him to-day."

"You saw him? Where?"

"On the street."

"How did you know it was he?"

"Sallie Watson asked me why I didn't bow to my grandfather."

"And what did you say?"

"I said: 'Never you mind!' And then I ran home all the way, as tight
as ever I could run! Mamma, why don't we ever see him?"

The baby's head was just emerging from temporary eclipse, and Mrs.
Crosby's voice dropped still lower, as she answered:

"Because, dear, _he doesn't wish it_."

There was something so gently conclusive in this answer that little Di
was silenced. Yet the look in her mother's face had not escaped her; a
wistful, hurt look, such as the child had never seen there before. And
in her own mind Di asked many questions.

What did it all mean? How did it happen that her grandfather did not
wish it? Why was he so different from other girls' grandfathers? There
must be something very wrong somewhere, but where was it? Since it
could not possibly be with her father or mother, it must be that her
grandfather was himself at fault.

The object of Di's perplexities, Mr. Horatio Crosby, lived all alone
in a very good house, and was in the habit of driving about in a very
pretty victoria; people bowed to him, people who were friends of Di's
father and mother, and must therefore be creditable acquaintances. All
this she soon discovered, for, having once come to know her
grandfather by sight, she seemed to be constantly crossing his path.

Little by little, as she grew older, Di picked up certain stray bits
of information, but she never tried to piece them together. She felt
that she would a little rather not know any more. A quarrel there had
certainly been, some time in the dark ages before she was born, and
the old man had proved himself obstinate and implacable. Friendly
overtures had been made from time to time, but he had set his face
against all such advances, and now, for many, many years,--as many as
three or four, little Di had gathered,--the friendly overtures had
ceased.

One gets used to things, and Di got used to having a grandfather who
did not know her by sight. She was sure he did not know her, because
once, wh