They were a
strikingly handsome couple, of ideally contrasting types.
"Mother," said Miss Treadwell, "this is Henry French--Colonel
French--who has come back from the North to visit his old home and the
graves of his ancestors. I found him in the cemetery; and this is his
dear little boy, Philip--named after his grandfather."
The old lady gave the colonel a slender white hand, thin almost to
transparency.
"Henry," she said, in a silvery thread of voice, "I am glad to see
you. You must excuse my not rising--I can't walk without help. You are
like your father, and even more like your grandfather, and your little
boy takes after the family." She drew Phil toward her and kissed him.
Phil accepted this attention amiably. Meantime the young people had
risen.
"This," said Miss Treadwell, laying her hand affectionately on the
girl's arm, "is my niece Graciella--my brother Tom's child. Tom is
dead, you know, these eight years and more, and so is Graciella's
mother, and she has lived with us."
Graciella gave the colonel her hand with engaging frankness. "I'm sure
we're awfully glad to see anybody from the North," she said. "Are you
familiar with New York?"
"I left there only day before yesterday," replied the colonel.
"And this," said Miss Treadwell, introducing the young man, who, when
he unfolded his long legs, rose to a rather imposing height, "this is
Mr. Ben Dudley."
"The son of Malcolm Dudley, of Mink Run, I suppose? I'm glad to meet
you," said the colonel, giving the young man's hand a cordial grasp.
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