than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was flapping
softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and black
hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my grandmother.
She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes she smiled,
peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed.

`Had a good sleep, Jimmy?' she asked briskly. Then in a very different
tone she said, as if to herself, `My, how you do look like your father!' I
remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have come
to wake him like this when he overslept. `Here are your clean clothes,'
she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she talked. `But
first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice warm bath
behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about.'

`Down to the kitchen' struck me as curious; it was always `out in the
kitchen' at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her
through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This
basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a
kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed--the
plaster laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts.
The floor was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were
little half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and
wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen, I sniffed a
pleasant smell of gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with
bright nickel trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench
against the wall, and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and
cold water. When she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was
used to taking my bath without help. `Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are
you sure? Well, now, I call you a right smart little boy.'