The immediate result of this latest of Gran'pa's outbreaks was that he stopped in his dug-out all night! About eleven o'clock that evening, after Molly had had a hot bath and gone to bed, I cooled down sufficiently to go out and see what had become of him. And there he was—crouched pathetically in front of a bright stick fire, looking like the sole survivor of some lost tribe of ancient wanderers. His head was in his hands, his beard hung tragically between his knees, and his back was bent in a dismal arch of resignation under the bludgeonings of Fate.

But the moment I tried to persuade him to behave like a reasonable man and come indoors, his attitude changed to one of stark, brute fury. He sprang to his feet and stood glaring and growling at me, as if he were some wild animal at bay. The firelight danced on his muddy and saturated clothes, and threw a weird, jumping, ape-like shadow on the wall of the dug-out. His eyes shone like balls of fire.

"Get out!" he said hoarsely. And then, with an ominous calm: "By God! if you don't, I'll brain you!"

He seized a huge, twisted branch, whose one end had been helping to feed the fire, and waved it, torch-like, in my face.

I floundered backwards, through the mud and water until I reached the level of the garden above.

"Gran'pa!" I implored. "For heaven's sake...."

"Go—when I tell you!" he screamed, emerging into the open. "I will not return to that house!""But ... you can't stay here...." I began, again.

"Who's going to stop me?"

"You're wet through. Do remember your age, and be reasonable. This is absurd!... I don't understand...."

"Oh! Go to blazes! I've had enough of your insults and bickerings. I shall stay here until the morning. Then I shall leave this benighted house and country and return to the States! Do you understand that?"

He returned to his shelter, thrust his weapon of attack back into the fire again, and took up an alert and threatening attitude, showing not the remotest sign of a compromise.

"Very well!" I said.

I went indoors again, flabbergasted at this tremendous burst of passionate resentment and childish obstinacy.

I thought of obtaining the help of a doctor, or a neighbor, or the police; but to tell the truth I was afraid that if Gran'pa were removed from his dugout by force he might lose his mental balance altogether and become a raving maniac.

For the time being, there seemed to be nothing that I could do. On the other hand, it was hopeless to think of going to bed. With Molly showing signs of having caught a very severe cold, with Nanny determined to leave me next day, and with Gran'pa crouching in that damp and miserable shelter down the garden, it would have been impossible for me to sleep a wink. The whole of my little, orderly world was topsy-turvy.

In my misery, I cursed science in general; I cursed Alfred the gorilla; I cursed Dr. Croft; and I even cursed Sir James Barrie for writing "Peter Pan."

I pictured those happy, peaceful days when Gran'pa had nodded at his unrejuvenated ease by the fireside—and life had been one smooth, eventless stream of comfort and solace after the day's work.

To think that this chaotic disturbance should have been caused by a mere couple of innocent looking thyroid glands! To think that, after all these years, dear, motherly old Nanny was going to leave us to fend for ourselves—or to leave us to the mercy of some cold-blooded, professional housekeeper.

With a sigh, I drew up my chair before the fire, and prepared to pass a night of comfortless dozings and painful cogitations on the future.

About one o'clock I woke with a start from an evil dream in which Gran'pa figured as a wild man of the woods, pursuing innocent children and hurrying them to some terrible and uncertain doom. In his cave were scattered the whitened remains of little human bones....

At two o'clock I shook off the vestiges of a pitiful scene in which the old man had been lying in a great four-poster bed, with his long gray beard streaming over a red and yellow counterpane.

"I'm ... dying, George!" he had whispered.

Scared and shaken, I sprang to my feet and determined to make still another appeal to his better nature.

The rain had ceased and a full moon shed its cold and pitiless light on the scene as I stood remonstrating and pleading with him.

"I'll apologize for everything, if you'll only come indoors," I said, humbly.

"No!... Go away!"

"Can I ... bring you anything hot to drink?" I asked.

He made no answer; but, full of hope, I hurried into the house again, lighted the gas stove, and heated up a pint of milk, which I poured into a large jug, adding a tablespoonful of Bovril to the steaming contents. With happy inspiration, I also half-filled a tumbler with neat whiskey. Surely such tokens of affectionate consideration would move him!

But no! For a moment or two he stood eying the jug and glass, which I had fearfully placed on the threshold of his retreat.

"The one's milk and Bovril, and the other's whiskey...." I said encouragingly.

He advanced a few steps, hesitated, and then suddenly picked up the jug and flung its contents at me.

"You ungrateful old beast!" I cried, as the hot liquid struck my face.

"Get away, then!"

Stooping down, he seized the glass in his right hand, and I hurriedly backed to a safer distance.

A second or so later the glass was empty; but instead of the whiskey joining the little rivulets of milk running down my clothes, it was securely inside Gran'pa, who was smacking his lips appreciatively.

"Thank you—George!" he gulped.

"Now, do come indoors!" I pleaded, with great self-control.

"No...." he growled.

I could see that he was weakening, however, and I took advantage of the fact.

"It's only two o'clock," I went on. "That means another six hours until breakfast time—six hours before it's even light."

The thought of it made me shudder.

"I won't ... give way," he mumbled. "I've put up with too much from you as it is.... NO!""All right! I've done everything that is humanly possible. I've lowered my dignity sufficiently to apologize, and I've offered to forgive and forget...."

"Don't be melodramatic!"

"Then you absolutely insist on wallowing in this filth until morning?"

"I do!"

Again I withdrew.

So the weary hours of the night dragged slowly on. In front of the blazing fire indoors my mind constantly reverted to that cold and cheerless underground cell in which Gran'pa was doing voluntary penance for his misdeeds. I thought also of the morrow when he and Nanny were going to leave us for ever. Molly, too, claimed my worried attention. Poor little Molly! She would lose a playmate. Since Gran'pa's rejuvenescence he and Molly had been the closest of chums. They had motor-scooted; they had climbed trees; they had met as equals in the great world of juvenile fiction which littered Molly's "sanctum." In short, Gran'pa had been to her that elder brother for whom she had craved since almost the first day when she could walk and talk.

And now this was to be the end—a wretched quarrel, an estrangement, a stumbling away of Gran'pa into the big dark world, which lay beyond what had been the brightest little home in Airesdale Avenue....

Even as I pondered on this scurvy trick of Fate's, I heard a distinct bump on the ceiling overhead. Then the patter of bare feet and a voice calling to me from the head of the stairs.

"Daddy!"

I darted to the door.

"Yes?"

"My throat's dry.... I feel so thirsty!""Get back to bed, dear, and I'll bring you some milk."

I went into the pantry and found what was apparently the "breakfast milk," warmed it a little, and took it up to Molly.

She was in bed again, but the jumbled state of the clothes told of a very restless night. Although it was so bitterly cold, the eiderdown was on the floor, and the counterpane half off the bed, and Molly herself only partly covered.

I handed her the milk and straightened the bed a little, while she sat up and swallowed the liquid greedily.

"You're very flushed and feverish," I said, sitting down by her side and feeling her hot little forehead and cheeks with the back of my hand. "Do you think you've caught cold, Molly?"

"I don't know, Daddy.... But it is hot!"

She searched with her feet for cold spots under the bedclothes.

"You mustn't toss the eiderdown off," I said. "Can't you get to sleep, dear?"

"No-o-o!..." she murmured, restlessly.

I placed a cool hand on her forehead again.

"Is that better?"

"Yes, Daddy!... Ever so much!"

She became quieter and gently pulled my other hand into the bed and commenced cuddling it. For half an hour or more I stayed with her until she fell into a fitful sleep. Then I crept downstairs to the fire and warmed my frozen limbs and feet.

That bedroom scene was the first in a long and agonizing series which lasted for over a week.

The locum tenens to our old family doctor fought back the menace, first of rheumatic fever and then of pneumonia. For days, it was touch and go which of the dread diseases she might contract, but she had a strong constitution—thank God!—and both Nanny and Gran'pa sank their grievances in a common service to their idol. Nothing was too much trouble for them. Nanny was just her own sweet, motherly self! But Gran'pa rose to heights of such unselfish devotion as I had never imagined. He spent practically the whole day and half of each night in her bedroom—watching her when she was asleep, and reading to her and playing games with her when she was awake.

"My God, George!" he said, "I don't think I shall ever be able to forgive myself."

His spirit of penitence and humility bordered on the pathetic. By some miracle, he had escaped Heaven knew what complications himself and he seemed determined to devote his remaining strength to succoring Molly in her dire hour of need. Gone was all his obstinacy, his freakishness. In that week of torment he had grown to years of discretion and achieved a mental stability far beyond my wildest hopes. Behind him, he had some seventy to eighty years' experience of human nature, and he brought it all to bear on Molly's particular temperament, with a wisdom which astonished even the doctor in attendance.

"The most wonderful old man I've ever seen!" he observed.

I did not mention the gland business, as I thought Gran'pa might be offended.

"He's certainly very tough!" I answered.

"But his sympathy and understanding! Remarkable!... Old people are usually so narrow-minded and crotchety ... so selfish.""Ah! He's the exception!" I said with enthusiasm.

"What's his age?"

"Ninety-six next week."

"You don't say so! Most astounding!"

"You've only seen him at his quietest, doctor."

I hesitated a moment; and then family pride carried me away a little.

"Normally," I said, "he is all energy and go. He could eat, drink and smoke me under the table any day; and as a companion for Molly he's—unapproachable. Motor-scooting, tree-climbing, running and jumping.... That big walnut tree down the garden is one of his favorite spots. He and Molly have a sort of seat, made of twisted boughs. He's often up there reading. A wonderful climber!"

"Impossible at his age!"

"You must drop in some day and see for yourself."

"Can you give any reason for it?" he asked.

Naturally, I could have given one—but I didn't....

"I suppose," I said, "that it is just the result of good, clean living and a strong constitution. He's never had a day's illness in his life—except for a slight operation he once underwent. He's also an American, born and bred. I think that may account for a lot...."

"H'm!... Very interesting man! Telling me this morning all about Abraham Lincoln's election as President and how it was the culmination of the long political struggle between the North and the South over the question of slavery. Your great-grandfather was a young man of about your age at that time.... Remarkable memory for details!" mused the doctor, jerkily, as if he had a preserved specimen of Gran'pa before him in a bottle of spirit. "Got a fine head, too.... And there's character in his face.... I should say he's a man who is not easily turned from anything he's set his mind to."

"He's the very devil," I admitted, "once he gets an idea into his head."

"It's men like that who make for progress, you know...."

"Undoubtedly, doctor! I believe that in a few years' time grandfather's name will be a household word."

"In a few years' time!..." he exclaimed. "But surely at his age—ninety-six ..."

"Oh, he's good for another thirty or forty years yet!"

The doctor looked at me with a trace of alarm in his eyes; then he said rather abruptly:

"Well, I must be going, Mr. Barnett."

The moment he had left the house, Gran'pa entered the room. He seemed very irritable.

"You must pardon me, George," he said, "but I couldn't help overhearing some of that conversation.... I don't think it was very nice of you to hold me up to ridicule."

"I had no such intention," I replied. "It was more from a feeling of justifiable pride in your abilities than anything else."

"H'm!... Well, it's my own fault, perhaps.... I've been intoxicated with this sudden flow of new energy. It went to my head, so to speak. My brain was overstimulated. I felt very much like a man who has come out of the darkness into a blaze of light. I hadn't grown used to the change.... Then came this terrible shock. I thought that Molly was going to die...." (Although she had practically recovered, the word sent the blood rushing inwards and I involuntarily shivered.) "But, thank God, she was spared.... It's been one awful nightmare of fear and if anything had happened to her, I should have killed myself; but the ordeal seems to have steadied me. Something's gone snap in here"—he tapped his forehead—"and I'm whole again!"

I kept silent, amazed at the sudden revelation of sanity.

Said Gran'pa: "As soon as Molly is well again I intend starting life afresh. I have a great deal of experience behind me, valuable first-hand knowledge of things and persons. I don't want to quote the old tag about an ounce of experience, but it's certainly true. It will give me a big pull over the younger generation—although I shall necessarily want their help. I shall not be handicapped like most men of my age, or even twenty years younger. And, thank Heaven, I have plenty of self-confidence."

He strode down the room, glanced out of the window at a burst of winter sunshine, and then came back to the hearth-rug, from which he had delivered his confession.

Taking hold of my arm, he added, very quietly:

"Please remember, George, that in future I'm a reasonable human being."

"I believe you," I answered. "In the last few days you have certainly changed for the better...."

That brief conversation gave me an insight into Gran'pa's new character—or was it his old one emerging butterfly-like from the chrysalis of age? He had become a man with a serious purpose in life; though he would not reveal exactly what that purpose was.

Events moved swiftly. A short time after Molly's complete recovery, Gran'pa visited the barber, and returned with a clean-shaven face and shorter locks!

The effect was bewildering, but very impressive. I saw for the first time the square-cut jaw and the firm mouth which had been hidden beneath the tangle of white beard and moustache. His cheeks were still sunken and his neck was scraggy; but—"They'll fill out in time, George!" he said.

The next day he dyed his hair a dark brown—and knocked his apparent age down to not a day more than fifty.

A week later he had discarded his old-fashioned swallow-tailed coat and wide-legged trousers for a smartly-cut gray lounge suit of the latest style. Another five or ten years seemed to have gone in a flash!

He began gradually acclimatizing himself to cold baths in the mornings. The bath-room echoed with the sounds of his blowings and splashings and singings....

An elastic "exerciser" appeared as if by magic on his bedroom door, and a pair of dumb-bells sprang into being on the window-sill.

At meal times he poured on his food large quantities of olive oil—and fried brown bread in it, for what he called his "eleven o'clock snack."

He even made a daily visit to the local beauty parlor, where his wrinkles were smoothed and steamed and massaged. Under this and the olive oil treatment his face and neck grew rounder and firmer.

And so, by these many painstaking efforts, did Gran'pa descend the barren mountain-side of age and come into the wide and fertile valley of Youth. The progress he made was very slow, but it was very, very sure. Every week he had a full and side-face photograph taken, and every week we compared it with the previous records of rejuvenation. It was then that one could see the gradual birth of that new man which he was making of himself.This gallery of portraits was an example of how carefully and scientifically Gran'pa was proceeding, and, unsatisfied with mere externals, he also paid periodic visits to Dr. Croft, who measured the strength of his heart-beat—and also recorded it on paper in the form of a zigzag graph.

"We're getting along, George!" he said. "I shall soon have you beaten, my boy. I'm going backwards and you're going forwards! When shall we meet, eh?"

"I wouldn't like to prophesy anything where you're concerned."

He put his hand on my shoulder and laughed from the sheer joy of living.

"This time last year ..." he said musingly, "was I really that—doddering old fool in the chair?"

"You were certainly old, and you were certainly in that chair—most of your time," I answered good-humoredly. (I was beginning to like him immensely!)

"What an escape!... What a miracle!... And this time next year?..."

"Aren't you ever going to tell me of this project of yours?" I pleaded, appropriately.

"Very soon, George! Next week I'm going down to Brooklands."

"You intend trying or buying a motor car—or aeroplane?" I gasped.

"A mere detail! But I refuse to be pumped. You'll hear everything in good time, George...."

So I still had to wait impatiently for the Day of Revelation!