"Everything's a lot of trouble. Your father was married here—but in the old house."
"Why—I thought he was married in Boston."
Adam Patch considered.
"That's true. He was married in Boston."
Anthony felt a moment's embarrassment at having made the correction, and he covered it up with words.
"Well, I'll speak to Gloria about it. Personally I'd like to, but of course it's up to the Gilberts, you see."
His grandfather drew a long sigh, half closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair.
"In a hurry?" he asked in a different tone.
"Not especially."
"I wonder," began Adam Patch, looking out with a mild, kindly glance at the lilac bushes that rustled against the windows, "I wonder if you ever think about the after-life."
"Why—sometimes."
"I think a great deal about the after-life." His eyes were dim but his voice was confident and clear. "I was sitting here to-day thinking about what's lying in wait for us, and somehow I began to remember an afternoon nearly sixty-five years ago, when I was playing with my little sister Annie, down where that summer-house is now." He pointed out into the long flower-garden, his eyes trembling of tears, his voice shaking.
"I began thinking—and it seemed to me that you ought to think a little more about the after-life. You ought to be—steadier"—he paused and seemed to grope about for the right word—"more industrious—why—"
Then his expression altered, his entire personality seemed to snap together like a trap, and when he continued the softness had gone from his voice.
"—Why, when I was just two years older than you,"
