It seemed that the welcoming look of the house was justified in the attitude of its inmates, for the car had but stopped when the door flew open, and Rufus Gray, his face beaming, bade them enter.  Inside, his wife came forward with her well-remembered sunny smile, and in a trice Matthew Kendrick and his grandson found themselves sitting in front of a blazing fire upon a wide hearth, receiving every evidence that their presence brought delight.

Richard looked on with inward amusement and satisfaction at the unwonted sight of his grandfather partaking of a cup of steaming coffee rich with country cream, and eating with the appetite of a boy a huge, sugar-coated doughnut which his hostess assured him could not possibly hurt him.

“They’re the real old-fashioned kind, Mr. Kendrick,” said she.  “Raised like bread, you know, and fried in lard we make ourselves in a way I have so that not a bit of grease gets inside.  My husband thinks they’re the only fit food to go with coffee.”

“They are the most delicious food I ever ate, certainly, Madam Gray, and I find myself agreeing with him, now that I taste them,” declared Mr. Kendrick, and Richard, disposing with zest of a particularly huge, light specimen of Mrs. Gray’s art, seconded his grandfather’s appreciation.

They made a long call, Mr. Kendrick appearing to enjoy himself as Richard could not remember seeing him do before.  He and Mr. Gray found many subjects to discuss with mutual interest, and the nodding of the two heads in assent at frequent intervals proved how well they found themselves agreeing.

Richard, as at the time of the Grays’ brief visit at his own home, devoted himself to the lady whom he always thought of as “Aunt Ruth,” secretly dwelling on the hope that he might some day acquire the right to call her by that pleasant title.  He led her, by artful circumlocutions, always tending toward one object, to speak of her nieces and nephews, and when he succeeded in drawing from her certain all too meagre news of Roberta, he exulted in his ardent soul, though he did his best not to betray himself.

“Maybe,” said she, quite suddenly, “you’d enjoy looking at the family album.  Robby and Ruth always get it out when they come here—­they like to see their father and mother the way they used to look.  There’s some of themselves, too, though the photographs folks have now are too big to go in an old-fashioned album like this, and the ones they’ve sent me lately aren’t in here.”

Never did a modern young man accept so eagerly the chance to scan the collection of curious old likenesses such as is found between the covers of the now despised “album” of the days of their grandfathers.  Richard turned the pages eagerly, scanning them for faces he knew, and discovered much satisfaction in one charming picture of Roberta’s mother at eighteen, because of its suggestion of the daughter.

“Eleanor was the beauty of the family, and is yet, I always say,” asserted Aunt Ruth.  “Robby’s like her, they all think, but she can’t hold a candle to her mother.  She’s got more spirit in her face, maybe, but her features aren’t equal to Eleanor’s.”