The door was wide open, and she walked in before me. "Guess who has come to see us!" she cried.
Her father answered indistinctly from the parlour, and a chair creaked. I judged he was disturbed in his nap.
"Mother!" she called in her clear young voice. "Puss!"
Puss was her sister.
She told them in a marvelling key that I had walked all the way from Clayton, and they gathered about me and echoed her notes of surprise.
"You'd better sit down, Willie," said her father, "now you have got here. How's your mother?"
He looked at me curiously as he spoke.
He was dressed in his Sunday clothes, a sort of brownish tweeds, but the waistcoat was unbuttoned for greater comfort in his slumbers. He was a brown-eyed ruddy man, and I still have now in my mind the bright effect of the red-golden hairs that started out from his cheek to flow down into his beard. He was short but strongly built, and his beard and moustache were the biggest things about him. She had taken all the possibility of beauty he possessed, his clear skin, his bright, hazel-brown eyes, and wedded them to a certain quickness she got from her mother. Her mother I remember
