Willis came with her curtsey to the old gentleman, who gave his order then and there.  He never waited for a fancy of this kind to grow cold.

“We shall all be children again, on that day, Mrs. Willis,” says he.  “And I catch any old people about, they shall be thrust straight in the town stocks, i’ faith.”

Willis made another curtsey.

“We missed it sorely, last year, please your honour,” says she, and departs smiling.

“And you shall have your Patty Swain, Richard,” Mr. Carvel continued.  “Do you mind how you once asked the favour of inviting her in the place of a present?  Oons!  I loved you for that, boy.  ’Twas like a Carvel.  And I love that lass, Whig or no Whig.  ’Pon my soul, I do.  She hath demureness and dignity, and suits me better than yon whimsical baggage you are all mad over.  I’ll have Mr. Swain beside me, too.  I’ll warrant I’d teach his daughter loyalty in a day, and I had again your years and your spirit!”

I have but to close my eyes, and my fancy takes me back to that birthday festival.  Think of it, my dears!  Near threescore years are gone since then, when this old man you call grandfather, and some—­bless me!—­great-grandfather, was a lusty lad like Comyn here.  But his hand is steady as he writes these words and his head clear, because he hath not greatly disabused that life which God has given him.

How can I, tho’ her face and form are painted on my memory, tell you what fair, pert Miss Dorothy was at that time’!  Ay, I know what you would say:  that Sir Joshua’s portrait hangs above, executed but the year after, and hung at the second exhibition of the Royal Academy.  As I look upon it now, I say that no whit of its colour is overcharged.  And there is likewise Mr. Peale’s portrait, done much later.  I answer that these great masters have accomplished what poor, human art can do.  But Nature hath given us a better picture.  “Come hither, Bess!  Yes, truly, you have Dolly’s hair, with the very gloss upon it.  But fashions have changed, my child, and that is not as Dolly wore it.”  Whereupon Bess goes to the portrait, and presently comes back to give me a start.  And then we go hand in hand up the stairs of Calvert House even to the garret, where an old cedar chest is laid away under the eaves.  Bess, the minx, well knows it, and takes out a prim little gown with the white fading yellow, and white silk mits without fingers, and white stockings with clocks, and a gauze cap, with wings and streamers, that sits saucily on the black locks; and the lawn-embroidered apron; and such dainty, high-heeled slippers with the pearls still a-glisten upon the buckles.  Away she flies to put them on.  And then my heart gives a leap to see my Dorothy back again,—­back again as she was that June afternoon we went together to my last birthday party, her girlish arms bare to the elbow, and the lace about her slender throat.  Yes, Bess hath the very tilt of her chin, the regal grace of that slim figure, and the deep blue eyes.