She was at his side in an instant, bending over him while he whispered:

"Is it safe? Can he see nothing, sure?"

"Nothing, father, nothing," was the reply, and thus reassured the old
man took the Alpenstock, which had done such good service, and looked at
the queer names burned upon it, lingering longest upon the first one,

"Grey Jerrold, Boston, Mass., 18--."

Very rapidly Grey talked of his travels, and the wonders beyond the sea.

"But, after all, America is best," he said, "and I am glad I am an
American. Boston is the place to be born in. Don't you think so,
grandpa?"

"Yes, yes. Did you go to Wales? To Carnarvon?" the old man said, so
abruptly that Grey stopped short and stared at him blankly.

His Aunt Hannah had asked the same question. Could it be they were more
interested in Carnarvon than in Mont Blanc and Vesuvius? If so, he would
confine himself to Carnarvon, and he began again to describe the old
castle, and the birth-room of the first Prince of Wales. Then his
grandfather interrupted him by asking:

"Did you hear of any family there by the name of Rogers?"

"Rogers? No. Why? Did you ever know any one by that name who lived in
Carnarvon?" Grey asked, and his grandfather replied: