The homely old woman uttered a cry of joy, and spread her arms.  The visitor, incarnate dignity, bent to the maternal caress with willing affection, yet with the tolerant air of good-nature that does not run to gush.  The children gathered round her, and hung upon her, undeterred by the fact that she had no kisses or fondlings for them.  Jim stood motionless, glowing at the back of his fixed eyes.

When the family had done greeting her, Guthrie was brought forward.

“This is Mr Carey, Deb, who—­”

“Oh, yes, I know”—­and the frank hand, large, strong and beautiful, like every bit of her, went out to him as if she had really known him—­ “it is on Mr Carey’s account that I have come, to tell you that you must bring him over to Redford at once.”

“We were going to,” said Alice; for it was the natural thing to take every Five Creeks visitor to Redford as soon as possible.  “I was writing to you only this morning.”

“Well, we just wanted to make sure.  My father—­you will excuse him for not calling on you; he is not able to get about as he used, poor old man—­hears that you belong to a family at home which was very intimate with his family when he was young.  Do you come from Norfolk?”

“No,” replied the sailor, still in his dream.

“Oh, dear, what a pity!  He will be so disappointed.  We have been hearing about the Careys of Wellwood all our lives—­never were such people, apparently—­and when he heard your name, and got the idea that you were of the clan, nothing would do but that you must be fetched at once, to talk to him about them.  Aren’t you even a second cousin, or something?”

“My grandfather was born at Wellwood—­”

“Ah, that’s right!  That’s all we want.  That makes you a Carey of Wellwood, of course.  I hope you know the place?” “I have seen it.  But my grandfather was a younger son and a ne’er-do-weel; he was kicked out —­he quite broke off—­”

“Never mind.  You needn’t go into inconvenient particulars.  Try and remember all you know that’s nice about the Hall and the family.  Did you ever hear of a Mary Carey?  But no—­she would be before your time, of course.”

“There was an old Mary Carey; she married a Spencer.  She was pointed out to me last time I was at home—­the nut-cracker type, nose and chin together—­”

“Goodness!  Keep that dark too, for mercy’s sake!  She is his ideal woman.  It is for her sake he wants you to talk Wellwood with.  If you spoil his pleasure with that hint of nut-crackers, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I hope I know better,” Guthrie smiled, coming to himself a little.

“I am sure you do,” said she, and turned from him to take her chair at table.

“Then we’ll bring him tomorrow,” Alice said, seating herself.

“This afternoon,” said the visitor commandingly.

Alice wanted another moonlight talk about the baby, and knew the small chance of getting it where Deborah Pennycuick was, and she raised obstacles, fighting for delay.  Deborah calmly turned to Jim.