shaking, and no strong-minded person ever wore mittens. He bad a great contempt for his aunt. . . .
On New Year's Eve, the last day but one of release from old Parlow, Mr. Westcott spent the day doing business in Truro, and at once the atmosphere over Scaw House seemed to lighten. The snow had melted away, and there was a ridiculous feeling of spring in the air; ridiculous because it was still December, but Cornwall is often surprisingly warm in the heart of winter, and the sun was shining as ardently as though it were the middle of June. The sunlight flooded the dining-room and roused old grand-father Westcott to unwonted life, so that he stirred in his chair and was quite unusually talkative.
He stopped Peter after breakfast, as he was going out of the room and called him to his side:
“Is that the sun, boy?”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“Deary me, to think of that and me a poor, broken, old man not able to move an arm or foot.”
He raised himself amongst his cushions, and Peter saw an old yellow wrinkled face with the skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and little black shining eyes like drops of ink. A wrinkled claw shot out and clutched Peter's hand.
"Do you love your grandfather, boy?”
“Of course, grandfather.”
“That's right, that's right—on a nice sunny morning, too. Do you love your father, boy?”
“Of course, grandfather.”
“He, he—oh, yes—all the Westcotts love their fathers. He loved his father when he was young, didn't he? Oh, yes, I should rather think so.”
And his voice rose into a shrill scream so that Peter jumped. Then he began to look Peter up and down.
“You'll be strong, boy, when you're a man—oh, yes, I should rather think so—I was strong once. . . . Do you hear that? . . . I was strong once, he, he!”
And here grandfather Westcott, overcome by his chuckling, began to cough so badly that Peter was afraid that he was going to be ill, and considered running for Aunt Jessie.
“Hit my back, boy—huh, huh! Ugh, ugh! That's right, hit it hard—that's better—ugh, ugh! Oh! deary me!
