"
"That clock used to tick in the up-stairs hall forty years ago--I
remember--" Grandma stopped as if a sudden thought had struck her.
She dropped an old faded lamp mat and a rag rug and came over to look
at the face of what had been an old friend. Many and many a time its
mellow booming of the hours had cut short a lengthy, merry conference
in Cynthia's room and sent her scurrying home to her waiting tasks.
"John," whispered Grandma with sudden intuition, "I don't believe
there's anything the matter with that clock. It was stopped--they said
your grandfather stopped it after your mother left for India. I used
to watch him wind it--here, let me at it. Yes," triumphantly, "here's
the key."
Grandma's hands shook noticeably and her lips trembled as she wound it.
And when it began to whir and then settled down to its clear even tick
Grandma just sat down and cried a bit.
"I can't help it," she explained as she wiped her eyes, "that clock
knows me as well as I know its face. Why, many a time Cynthia and I'd
sit right where we could look at it--while we were telling each other
foolish little happenings--so's we wouldn't talk too long."
Grandma went back to where she had left that faded lamp mat but she
knew what was about to happen in that attic that day.
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