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"I'm going to leave the ladder there for you to use," she whispered, hugging me, covering my face with her kisses. Lucky for me she took off that dry veil first. "I don't want you to fall and hurt yourself. I love you so much, Bart. I look at you and think of how proud your father would be. Oh, if only he could see his son. His handsome, brilliant son!"

Handsome? Brilliant? Gee . . . didn't know I was either one. It felt good to be told I was wonderful. She made me believe I was every bit as good looking as Jory, and every bit as talented too. This was a grandmother. The kind I'd always wanted. One who loved me and no one else. Maybe John Amos was wrong about her after all.

Again I sat on her lap and let her spoon ice cream into my mouth. She fed me a cookie, a slice of chocolate cake, then held the glass of milk for me to drink. With a full stomach I snuggled more

comfortably on her lap and rested my head on the softness of her full breasts that smelled of lavender. "Corrine used to use lavender," I mumbled sleepily with my thumb in my mouth. "Sing me a lullaby . . nobody ever sang me to sleep like Momma sings to Cindy . . ."

"Lullaby and good night . . ."

Funny. As she sang softly, seemed I was only two years old, and a long, long time ago I'd sat just like this, on my mother's lap, and heard her sing that very song.

"Wake up, darling," she said, tickling my face with the edge of her sleeve. "Time for you to go home now. Your parents will be worried--and they have suffered enough without having more anxiety about your whereabouts."

Oh! Over in the corner John Amos had overheard her speak. It was in his watery pale blue eyes that gleamed dangerously. He didn't like my grandmother or my parents or Jory or Cindy. He didn't like anyone but me and Malcolm Foxworth.

"Grandmother," I whispered, hiding my face so he couldn't see my lips move, "don't let John Amos hear you say you feel sorry for my parents. I heard him say yesterday they didn't deserve sympathy." I felt her shiver and try not to let him know she was aware he was there.

"What's sympathy mean exactly?"

Sighing, she held me tighter. "It's an emotion you feel when you understand the troubles of others. When you want to help, but there's nothing you can do."

"Then what good is sympathy?"

"Not much good in any meaningful way," she said with her eyes looking sad. "It's only good is letting you know you are still human enough to have compassion. The best kind of sympathy moves one into action to solve problems."

John Amos whispered as I sneaked out into the evening shadows: "The Lord helps those who help themselves. Remember that, Bart." Gravely he returned the pages of my mother's manuscript I'd given him to read. "Put these back exactly as you found them. Don't get them soiled. And when she's written more, bring those--and you will be able then to solve all your own problems. Her book is telling you how. Don't you understand, that's why she's writing it."

Ever Since Eve

. She was coming now, coming from

Greenglenna, South Carolina, where the graves grew like weeds. Any day I could expect to look up and see her ugly mean face.

My own grandmother was a thousand times better. Sometimes lately she left her face unveiled. She'd wear a little makeup to please me--and it did. Sometimes she even put on a pretty dress--but nevernever did she let John Amos see her in anything but that black robe and the veil over her face. Only for me was she pretty.

"Bart, please don't spend too much time with John."

He'd warned me many times she wouldn't approve. "No, ma'am. John Amos and me don't get along."

"I'm glad. He's an evil man, Bart--cold, cruel and heartless."

"Yes, ma'am. He don't like women much." "He told you that?"

"Yep. Tells me he gets lonely. Tells me you treat him like dirt and refuse to speak to him for days on end."

"Leave John alone. Avoid him all you can--but keep on coming to see me. You're all I have now." She patted the soft sofa cushion, inviting me to sit beside her. I knew by now that she sat in comfortable chairs whenever John Amos had gone into the city.

"What does he do in San Francisco?" I asked. He went there often.

Frowning, she pulled me into her arms and held me close against the soft silk of her r

ose-colored dress. "John is an old man, but still he has many appetites that must be satisfied."

"What does he like to eat?" I asked, curious about an old man who had false teeth and great difficulty chewing even chicken, much less steak. Mush, jello, bread sopped in milk--that's what John Amos usually ate.

She chuckled and kissed the top of my hair.

"How's your mother? Is she walking well now?"