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“But Grandmamma, where is your walnut shell?” asked the eldest, clever like her mother. “Did it help you when the Devil made you lame?”

“I am the tree grown past its shell,” said the Widow. “You are the seed.”

“But Grandmamma, we are so happy today,” cried the second daughter, lively like her father. “Why should the wide world bring us sorrow?”

“The Wide World cares not about your joy or sorrow,” said the Widow, “nor in what proportion you have them.”