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"And when will it be my time?" asked little Peter innocently.
"Hold your tongue, child!" whispered his mother; "it won't be your time
till your poor dear grandmother's in heaven."
"I don't want her to go to heaven yet," said Peter in a plaintive tone
(for he regarded her as much the best possession he had), and, raising
his voice, he complained to her as to one threatening to injure him,
"Grandmother, you don't want to go to heaven just yet, do you?"
"Lor bless the child!" exclaimed old Madam Melcombe, a good deal
startled.
"No, don't," continued Peter in a persuasive tone; "stop here, but let
me clean the picture, because I want to see that lobster."
"Now I tell you what," answered his great-grandmother rather sharply,
"if you was to go and play in the gallery, it would be a deal better
than arguing with me." So Peter departed to his play, and forgot the
lobster for a little while.
But Peter was not destined that evening to please his great-grandmother,
for he had no sooner got well into the spirit of his play in the gallery
than he began to sing.


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