"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented Matilda, missing the point.

Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her attention.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."

"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"

"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.

"But I have," Grandmother retorted, feebly. "I can feel 'em--here." She placed her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again.

Rosemary to the Rescue

Rosemary ran up-stairs, inspired to unusual speed by the heartrending sounds that came from below. When she returned, Grandmother seemed to be in a final spasm, and even Matilda was frightened, though she would not have admitted it.

"Here," said Rosemary. "Now come to breakfast."

Grandmother rolled her eyes helplessly toward Rosemary, then suddenly sat up. "Where'd you get 'em?" she demanded, in a different tone.

"They were on the floor under the washstand. Please come before everything gets cold."

"I told you you hadn't swallowed 'em," remarked Matilda, caustically.

"Maybe I didn't, but I might have," rejoined Grandmother. "Anyhow, I've seen how you'd all act in case I had swallered 'em, and I know who to leave my money to when I die." She beamed kindly upon Rosemary, in whom the mention of money had produced mingled emotions of anger and resentment.