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All alone now. Nothin to do. I sat down and crossed my legs like my daddy did, then leaned back to light up an expensive cigar, which Daddy never did. (Momma didn't like men who smoked.) Nothin wrong with smokin as far as I could tell, I thought, as I blew four perfect smoke rings into the air . . . and away they sailed toward the Pacific. They'd end up in Japan over Mt. Fugi.

"Good morning, Bart darling. I'm so glad to see you." She came in and sat in the rocker.

"You got my pony yet?"

Her voice sounded worried. "Sweetheart, I know I promised you a pony as your heart's desire, but I did that without knowing how much trouble a pony can be."

"You promised!" I cried. Was I puttin my trust in the wrong person? One who failed to deliver what she promised.

"Sweetheart, a pony needs a stall, and ponies make you smell bad. When you went home your parents and Jory would guess you had a pet over here."

Instead of answerin, I began to cry. "All my life I been wantin a pony," I sobbed. "All my livelong life, and now I've got to grow old without havin one . . ." Sobbed some more, then hung my head and headed for home, never to return.

"Bart . . . there is a beautiful big dog that won't smell and betray your secrets. A St. Bernard--a dog so big you can ride it like a pony. If you keep him clean and fluffy he won't betray you with his odors. . . ."

Slowly I turned to glare at her. "Ain't no dog as big as a pony!"

"Isn't there?"

"NO! You're tryin to make fun of me. I don't like you anymore! I'm goin home and never comin back-- not until you have a pony I can name Apple."

"Darling, you can call your puppy Apple--but he won't eat them--and just think how jealous Jory would be if you have a dog more marvelous than his."

Turned to the door. Disgusted.

"Only the super rich can afford to feed a St. Bernard, Bart!"

Like I was a pin and she was the magnet, I turned back to her unwillingly. She lifted me up on her lap and cuddled me there, and it wasn't so awful after all. "You can call me Grandmother."

"Grandmother." Felt good to have a

grandmother at last. I snugged closer and waited for her to call me Baby, but she just went right on rockin and singin a lullaby. I put my thumb in my mouth. Nice to be hugged and kissed and made to feel helpless and loved. And she didn't smell like mothballs after all.

"Are you ugly under that veil?" I asked, always curious about what she looked like. The veil was almost transparent, but not enough.

"I guess you would think so, but once I was very beautiful--like your mother."

"You know my mother?" I asked.

The door opened and my favorite pretty maid came in with a dish of ice cream and hot brownies fresh from the oven. "Now only eat one brownie, and let this little bit of ice cream be enough so you can come over after lunch." She went on to tell me not to shove in such huge mouthfuls because it was not good manners, and was also a shock to my digestive system.

I had good manners. My momma taught me all the time. For some reason I was angry enough to jump down from her lap, wonderin just what it was John Amos had to tell me. As I stumbled toward the door, all of a sudden John Amos was there in the hall, smilin at me spooky-like. He bowed a little and put a small red-leather book in my hands. "I sense you're not very confident about yourself," he whispered, making lots of hissin sounds like a snake. "It's time you knew just who you really are. That lady who told you to call her grandmother is really your true grandmother."

Oh, good golly! I didn't know I had my own true grandmother. I thought my grandmothers were either dead or in the looney bin.

"Yes, Bart, she's your grandmother, and not only that, once she was married to your father. Your real father."

Didn't know what to think, except I was awful happy havin a genuine true grandmother of my very own, just like Jory had his own. And she wasn't dead, or crazy.

"Now you listen to me, boy, and you will never feel weak and ineffective again. You read a little of this book every day and it will teach you to be like your great-grandfather, Malcolm Neal Foxworth. Never on this earth did there live a man who was smarter than your own great-grandfather--the father of your grandmother who sits in that rocker and wears that ugly black veil."

"She's pretty underneath," I said. I didn't like what he was sayin and the way he was lookin. "Never have seen her face, but I can tell from her voice that she's pretty--prettier than you!"

He sneered, then quickly changed his expression to smilin.

"All right, have it your way. But after you read this book written by your own dear great-grandfather, you will understand that women are not to be trusted, especially pretty women. They have ways, cunning ways, of making men do what they want. You'll find that out soon enough when you become a man, A man as handsome as your own father was, and she took him and made him her slave, made him her lap dog like she's making you."

Wasn't no lap dog, wasn't!