SHE was a dear, white-haired old lady, the very ideal of a grandmother, and she sat by the fireside rocking slowly, but with a sad look on her gentle face. “No, dearie, I’m not sick, but I do feel lonely sometimes.” But why should she be lonely? She was in a family of well-bred young people—son and daughter, and grandchildren of various ages. She loved the young people. She would have liked to join in their merriment; but they, in their thoughtlessness, never imagined that grandmother cared for such things, and so they sat talking over their plans, telling merry tales, but leaving grandmother out of the conversation altogether. They were never unkind to her. She had the best room in the house. Her bodily comfort was attended to first, her wishes were immediately carried out. But she would gladly have given up all this to have had one of those bright-faced boys or girls for a companion. If they would only have sat down and told her some of their stories and plans, how glad she would have been; and she had pleasant stories to tell, too, if there was some one to listen and care. But she sat by the fire with a shadow on her lovely old face, and said: “I am so lonely sometimes.” I wish they all could have heard it, and understood the pathos of it. It will not be long till grandmother’s chair will be vacant. She has spent her life in ministry for others. Common gratitude would demand that her last days should not be lonely and companionless. Love the grandmother; give her a place in your heart as well as your home, and make her closing hours her happiest.—Selected.