“Not one of my children ever minded me,” she complained. “I don’t see why they think I should mind them now.”

They expected her to live with them and look after their children.

“A grandmother doesn’t like children any more than a mother does,” she declared. “Sometimes she’s just too old to get out of tending them, that’s all, but I’m not. Never felt better in my life.”

It was that fine man, Mr. Sweeney, who came to her rescue with a loan, just as before. Since Aunt Lois had paid him back the last time he had come to the rescue, she was mad enough at this new negotiation to take a train for California, where Aunt Betts had gone for her asthma. She said if Grandma wanted to get in hot water again she would have to get herself out this time. She said she would not forgive Mr. Sweeney for aiding Grandma’s wildcat scheme.

The present wildcat scheme was a collaboration of Mrs. Carmel and Grandma. Rheumatism had hampered Mrs. Carmel’s gift for hat trimming and idleness made her restless. They would go in partnership in a notion shop in London Junction. With Mrs. Carmel’s savings and Grandma’s loan from Mr. Sweeney, they would make a fortune. They took an apartment over the Fair Store, with the living room as their shop. The notions consisted of knicknacks from Mrs. Carmel’s bags, ancient handkerchiefs slightly yellowed, silk remnants also somewhat sun-faded, postcards, dusty marchpane fruit with a pungent flavor of mothballs, patterns, magazine subscriptions, hairpins, fans, souvenir spoons shined up to look like new except for a dent or two where some baby had teethed on them, bibs, and sheet music. The sheet music was far from being the latest thing, and had been sampled by mice and moths so that a page crumpled away at a touch. However, for a genuine musician there were many treats here, vocally and instrumentally, “The Little Romp Quick-step,” “Father is Dead, and Mother’s So Poor,” “Velocipede Gallop,” “Stay Home With Me Tonight, Tom,” and “Mama, Why Don’t Baby Cry?” As Grandma said, at least it made a nice showing. By way of a specialty, they sold homemade candy, butterscotch, peanut brittle, and sea-foam. The candy was inspired by finding among Mrs. Carmel’s treasures an old paperbacked volume called Young Folk’s Candy and Good Times Book. Recipes were adapted to the unscientific cook, reading “add some water, a little more sugar if it seems too thin, stir only if necessary but not too much, dash of flavoring to taste, set aside to cool, and cut up into squares.” If the results were good, Grandma dipped into them until there was scarcely enough for three customers at twenty-five cents a box but a careful packing job could spread it out to five, what with each piece wrapped in waxed paper and an extra cardboard at the bottom.

The Fair Store was right in the busiest section of town, around the corner from the railroad and directly opposite the bandstand. From their front bay window they could watch the crowd at the band concerts, and from their side windows they could watch the passing trains. With proper lighting conditions they could even see some life going on in the back of the London Junction Hotel. Across the corridor from them was the Odd Fellows Hall, the scene of dances and banquets. Sometimes a dance orchestra competed with the band concerts, so that Grandma, relaxing happily under the spell of all this music, could produce a humming arrangement of the “William Tell Overture” all mixed up with “Give My Regards to Broadway.” She liked a good tune to hum and felt aggrieved that she could never get beyond the first bar of “Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” because the 8:41 Cincinnati Express always roared through the rest of it.