and Judith took their departure. George went to the door with them, and then returned to his old position in front of the sideboard. I gave a sly glance at him, and thought he seemed depressed.
"Tom," I cried abruptly, "do you know what I was thinking of the other day at the christening?"
"No." My brother-in-law was all eager attention.
"I was wondering what Uncle John would have said had he been there."
Tom gave one of his hearty laughs,—not a "parlor laugh," as Judith says, but very contagious and pleasant to hear.
"I hope you did n't suggest that to Alice."
"I did, and she looked horrified."
"I should think so. You ought to see Uncle John" (turning to Mr. Thurber), "to appreciate this."
"He is a most worthy old man," I continued, "but not exactly the kind that one would wish to present at court as a relative."
"I don't know that he is a worthy old man," broke in Tom. "He is an old miser."
"But a good Baptist," I persisted. "He generally sits in the kitchen, with his feet on the stove, chewing tobacco, in the winter. In warm weather he occupies the 'pyazzy,' as he calls it, and goes without a coat."
"What an eccentric person!" remarked Mr. Thurber.
"Once a year," I continued, stopping to drink my tea before I finished the sentence, "he used to make a raid upon us. He came to the city for a change. He always arrived when we least expected him. He never
