'Mary shall take us both in hand,' said Lydia. 'She shall cure me of my sharp temper and you of grumbling, grandad; and I know which 'll be the hardest job!'
Laughing with kindly mirth, the old man drew on his woollen gloves and took up his hat and the violin-bag. Then he offered to say good-bye.
'But you're forgetting your top-coat, grandad,' said Lydia.
'I didn't come in it, my dear.'
'What's that, then? I'm sure we don't wear such things.'
She pointed to a chair, on which Thyrza had just artfully spread the gift. Mr. Boddy looked in a puzzled way; had he really come in his coat and forgotten it? He drew nearer.
'That's no coat o' mine, Lyddy,' he said.
Thyrza broke into a laugh.
'Why, whose is it, then?' she exclaimed. 'Don't play tricks, grandad; put it on at once!'
'Now come, come; you're keeping Mary waiting,' said Lydia, catching up the coat and holding it ready.
Then Mr. Boddy understood. He looked from Lydia to Thyrza with dimmed eyes.
'I've a good mind never to speak to either of you again,' he said in a tremulous voice. 'As if you hadn't need enough of your money! Lyddy, Lyddy! And you're as bad, Thyrza; a grown-up woman like you, you ought to teach your sister better. Why there; it's no good; I don't know what to say to you. Now what do you think of this, Mary?'