GRANDFATHER'S
Love Pie

BY
Miriam Gaines

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
JOHN EDWARD WHITING

1913
JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY
INCORPORATED
Louisville, Kentucky

Copyright, 1913,
by
Miss Miriam Gaines.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED FATHER,
John Thomas Gaines,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED.

GRANDFATHER'S LOVE PIE

I.

"O, Auntee, what is it?"

The awed young voice paused at the threshold.

It was a sight the little girl had never witnessed before—she had seen Auntee sad at occasional intervals, and a few times had looked upon tears in the usually merry eyes of her beloved chum, but never before had she beheld Auntee sobbing in such an abandonment of grief.

There was a very tender tie of love between these two—Alsie, the dear little twelve-year-old daughter of an older sister of the family, and Alice, the only remaining unmarried child of a household of many sons and daughters.

The family circle had never been broken, however, and it was a household where love prevailed, for although several members lived in far-away homes, the flame of affection burned as brightly and the cord of love bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their sturdy Scotch ancestors into clans.

Auntee (for that was Alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she again buried her face in the pillow with a sob.

After a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly around the little namesake and tried to explain.

"I did not intend to burden you, Alsie dear, with my grief, but I feel so sad and somehow I just couldn't keep it shut in any longer—it had to come out. But I thought you were playing with your little friend Margaret, and I knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand which would surely keep her an hour."

"Auntee, are you so sad because dear Uncle James has gone away? You know grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots of us left to make you bright and happy."

"So there are, Alsie, and I will try to take courage in that thought, for surely God wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon—so soon." The last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was unconscious of the presence of the child. Little Alsie's face became white.

"O, Auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"—her voice faltered and she finished in a whisper—"is worse?"

Auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily, "No, dear child, no worse. But sit down with me and I will tell you all about it. You must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however, for we will have to be brave together." Then, sitting side by side in the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet the gaze of returned travelers, Aunt Alice related to young Alice the story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south bedchamber.

His health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was hard for them—or, indeed, any other—to conceive that it was more than a passing ailment, and would soon disappear. The family became vaguely uneasy as the spring merged into the summer, and a plan was proposed for the plump little five-foot "wifey" to take her big husband, the Captain, on a long trip to the seashore and mountains.

The trip had been taken, but Captain Gordon's condition did not show the improvement that the anxious members of his family had so earnestly hoped to see, and after the return the busy little wife immediately set about securing a couch for his office, for the invalid insisted that he was able to resume his duties. She explained that "the Captain might rest a little now and then from his labors," for the sturdy old soldier would not for a moment entertain the thought of giving up his work—the loved, chosen profession which he had followed so faithfully and successfully since he came out—a gallant young officer of twenty-three—from the Civil War, the sole survivor of the four members of his household who had gone forth to fight for what was to be the Lost Cause.

Everything at the office was made especially comfortable, for how willingly would every one have spared the quiet, kind professor, who combined so wonderfully strength and manliness with gentleness and lovableness of disposition.

The experiment lasted one week—he came home at the close of the sixth day and said quietly, "I must get a substitute until I am well enough to attend to my work as it should be done." So the substitute was secured and a consultation of doctors followed, with the result that a new line of treatment had been adopted. A few weeks failed to bring good results, so other treatments had been tried, until, a few weeks before, a skilled specialist had ordered him off to the infirmary for a period of several weeks.

The days spent here were days of great suffering, but grandfather was a man of monumental patience, and no word of complaint passed his lips. It was just at this time that a crushing blow had been dealt the hopeful, cheery little wifey, who had always been laughingly termed "boss of the ranch," "head of the house," and suchlike terms, but whose right to these titles had never been disputed by the indulgent husband or devoted sons and daughters, for her ready hand always carried with it relief, and her merry laugh brought cheer and sunshine.

Her only brother had been stricken, and died within a few days, but the brave little wife and mother had hidden her deep sorrow in her bosom, and after a few days, only a smiling face was presented about the house.

When the allotted time at the infirmary had expired, the young doctor, who had studied the case with such zeal and attended his patient with the tender care of a son, brought him back to his home.

After having put her father to bed, to rest from the weariness of the trip, Alice turned around to the waiting physician, a foreboding anxiety in her heart, and tried to make her question quite natural:

"Well, doctor, how soon can your friend, the specialist, have father well again?"

After a pause Dr. Emerson replied, "He will not continue on the case, Miss Gordon."

"O, doctor, what