There were some changes, however, which truly did astonish him, and these were the alterations—­in his opinion entirely uncalled for and unwarrantable—­which had been made in the spelling of the words of our language since he had gone to school.  No steam-engine, no application of electricity, none of the modern inventions which I showed him, caused him the emotions of amazement which were occasioned by the information that in this country “honor” was now spelled without a u.

During this time Mr. Kilbright’s interest in his grandson seemed to be on the increase.  He would frequently walk past the house of that old gentleman merely for the purpose of looking at him as he sat by the open window reading his newspaper or quietly smoking his evening pipe on a bench in his side yard.  When he had been with me about ten days he said:  “I now feel that I must go and make myself known to my grandson.  I am earning my own subsistence; and, however he may look upon me, he need not fear that I am come to be a burden upon him.  You will not wonder, sir, that I long to meet with this son of the little baby girl I left behind me.”

I did not wonder, and my wife and I agreed to go with him that very evening to old Mr. Scott’s house.  The old gentleman received us very cordially in his little parlor.

“You are a stranger in this town, sir,” he said to Kilbright.  “I did not exactly catch your name—­Kilbright?” he said, when it had been repeated to him, “that is one of my family names, but it is long since I have heard of anyone bearing it.  My mother was a Kilbright, but she had no brothers, and no uncles of the name.  My grandfather was the last of our branch of the Kilbrights.  His name was Amos, and he was a Bixbury man.  From what part of the country do you come, sir?”

“My name is Amos, and I was born in Bixbury.”

Old Mr. Scott sat up very straight in his chair.  “Young man, that seems to me impossible!” he exclaimed.  “How could there be any Kilbrights in Bixbury and I not know of it?” Then taking a pair of big silver spectacles from his pocket he put them on and attentively surveyed his visitor, whose countenance during this scrutiny was filled with emotion.

Presently the old gentleman took off his spectacles and, rising from his chair, went into another room.  Quickly returning, he brought with him a small oil-painting in a narrow, old-fashioned frame.  He stood it up on a table in a position where a good light from the lamp fell upon it.  It was the portrait of a young man with a fresh, healthy face, dressed in an old-style high-collared coat, with a wide cravat coming up under his chin, and a bit of ruffle sticking out from his shirt-bosom.  My wife and I gazed at it with awe.

“That,” said old Mr. Scott, “is the picture of my grandfather, Amos Kilbright, taken at twenty-five.  He was drowned at sea some years afterward, but exactly how I do not know.  My mother did not remember him at all.  And I must say,” he continued, putting on his spectacles again, “that there is something of a family likeness between you, sir, and that picture.  If it wasn’t for the continental clothes in the painting there would be a good deal of resemblance—­yes, a very great deal.”