“And this is dear Richard?” she cried.  “Philip, come at once and greet your cousin.  He has not the look of the Carvels,” she continued volubly, “but more resembles his mother, as I recall her.”

“Indeed, madam,” my grandfather answered somewhat testily, “he has the Carvel nose and mouth, though his chin is more pronounced.  He has Elizabeth’s eyes.”

But my aunt was a woman who flew from one subject to another, and she had already ceased to think of me.  She was in the hall.  “The dear old home?” she cries, though she had been in it but once before, regarding lovingly each object as her eye rested upon it, nay, caressingly when she came to the great punch-bowl and the carved mahogany dresser, and the Peter Lely over the broad fireplace.  “What memories they must bring to your mind, my dear,” she remarks to her husband. “’Tis cruel, as I once said to dear papa, that we cannot always live under the old rafters we loved so well as children.”  And the good lady brushes away a tear with her embroidered pocket-napkin.  Tears that will come in spite of us all.  But she brightens instantly and smiles at the line of servants drawn up to welcome them.  “This is Scipio, my son, who was with your grandfather when your father was born, and before.”  Master Philip nods graciously in response to Scipio’s delighted bow.  “And Harvey,” my aunt rattles on.  “Have you any new mares to surprise us with this year, Harvey?” Harvey not being as overcome with Mrs. Grafton’s condescension as was proper, she turns again to Mr. Carvel.

“Ah, father, I see you are in sore need of a woman’s hand about the old house.  What a difference a touch makes, to be sure.”  And she takes off her gloves and attacks the morning room, setting an ornament here and another there, and drawing back for the effect.  “Such a bachelor’s hall as you are keeping!”

“We still have Willis, Caroline,” remonstrates my grandfather, gravely.  “I have no fault to find with her housekeeping.”

“Of course not, father; men never notice,” Aunt Caroline replies in an aggrieved tone.  And when Willis herself comes in, auguring no good from this visit, my aunt gives her the tips of her fingers.  And I imagine I see a spark fly between them.

As for Grafton, he was more than willing to let bygones be bygones between his father and himself.  Aunt Caroline said with feeling that Dr. Hilliard’s death was a blessing, after all, since it brought a long-separated father and son together once more.  Grafton had been misjudged and ill-used, and he called Heaven to witness that the quarrel had never been of his seeking,—­a statement which Mr. Carvel was at no pains to prove perjury.  How attentive was Mr. Grafton to his father’s every want.  He read his Gazette to him of a Thursday, though the old gentleman’s eyes are as good as ever.  If Mr. Carvel walks out of an evening, Grafton’s arm is ever ready, and my uncle and his worthy lady are eager to take a hand at cards before supper.