Gratcher-eye could positively not see around a corner, if, for example, Allan himself was there; the Gratcher-eye could not tell if his hat was on his head or off.  But this by no means proved that the Gratcher-eye did not exercise its magic function when a Gratcher actually approached, and Allan knew it.  He would stand staunchly, with a fine incredulity, while the little boy called off the strides, perhaps, until he announced “Now he’s just passed the well-curb—­now he’s—­” but here, scoffing over an anxious shoulder, Allan would go in where Clytie was baking, feigning a sudden great hunger.

Nancy would stay, because she believed the little boy’s protestations that he could save her, and the little boy himself often believed them.

“I love Allan best, because he is so comfortable, but I think you are the most admirable,” she would say to him at such times; and he thought well of her if she had seemed very, very frightened.

So life had become a hardy sport with him.  No longer was he moved to wish for early dissolution when Clytie’s song floated to him: 

  “‘I should like to die,’ said Willie,
    If my papa could die, too;
  But he says he isn’t ready,
    ’Cause he has so much to do!”

This Willie had once seemed sweet and noble to him, but the words now made him avid of new life by reminding him that his own dear father would soon come to be with him one week, as he had promised when last they parted, and as a letter written with magnificent flourishes now announced.

Late in August this perfect father came—­a fine laughing, rollicking, big gentleman, with a great, loud voice, and beautiful long curls that touched his velvet coat-collar.  His sweeping golden moustache, wide-brimmed white hat, the choice rings on his fingers, his magnificently ponderous gold watch-chain and a watch of the finest silver, all proclaimed him a being of such flawless elegance both in person and attire that the little boy never grew tired of showing him to the village people and to Clytie.  He did not stay at the big house, for some reason, but at the Eagle Hotel, whence he came to see his boys each day, or met them hurrying to see him.  And for a further reason which the little boys did not understand, their grandfather continued to be too busy to see this perfect father once during the week he stayed in the village.

Deeming it a pity that two such choice spirits should not be brought together, the little boy urged his father to bring his fiddle to the big house and play and sing some of his fine songs, so that his grandfather could have a chance to hear some good music.  He knew well enough that if the old man once heard this music he would have to give in and enjoy it, even if he was too busy to come down.  And if only his father would tune up the fiddle and sing that very, very good song about,

  “The more she said ‘Whoa!’
  They cried, ‘Let her go!’
  And the swing went a little bit higher,”