him. "I wish I'd come along and seen him. So he had the bad manners to
sit in our hall in a wet and muddy motoring coat, and go in to see Uncle
Cal--"

"The young man had on no muddy coat when Stephen brought him in to see
me," declared Judge Calvin Gray, coming out and catching the last
sentence. "He put it on in the hall before going out. What are you
saying? That was the grandson of my good friend, Matthew Kendrick, and
so had claim upon my good will from the start, though I haven't laid
eyes upon the boy since his schooldays. He was rather a restless and
obstreperous youngster then, I'll admit. What he is now seems pleasing
enough to the eye, certainly, though of course that may not be
sufficient. A fine, mannerly young fellow he appeared to me, and I was
glad to see that he seemed willing enough to run upon his grandfather's
errands, though they took him out upon a raw night like this."

But Louis Gray, though he did not pursue the subject further, was still
smiling to himself as he obeyed a summons to dinner.

At opposite ends of the long table sat Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gray. The
head of the house looked his part: fine of face, crisp of speech,
authoritative yet kindly of manner. His wife may be described best by
saying that one had but to look upon her to know that here sat the Queen
of the little realm, the one whose gentle rule covered them all as with
the brooding wing of wise motherhood. Down the sides of the board sat
the three sons: Stephen, tall and slender, grave-faced, quiet but
observant; Louis, of a somewhat lesser height but broad of shoulder and
deep of chest, his bright face alert, every motion suggesting vigour of
body and mind; Ted--Edgar--the youngest, a slim, long-limbed lad with
eyes eager as a collie's for all that might concern him--this was the