It had a certain quality, the old man
proudly considered, which was lacking in that of both Benson and Carson,
fine fellows though they were, and well-mannered in every way. It
reminded Matthew Kendrick of the boy's own father, who had been a man
among men, and a gentleman besides.
"Grandfather, we shall pass Mr. Rufus Gray's farm in a minute. Don't you
want to stop and see them?"
"Rufus Gray?" questioned Mr. Kendrick. "The people we entertained at
Christmas? I should like to stop, if it will not delay us too long. It
seems a colder air than it did this morning."
"There's a bit of wind, and it's usually colder, facing this way. If you
prefer, after the call, I'll take you back to the station and run down
alone."
"We'll see. Is this the place we're coming to? A pleasant old place
enough, and it looks like the right home for such a pair," commented Mr.
Kendrick, gazing interestedly ahead as the car swung in at a stone
gateway, and followed a winding roadway toward a low-lying, hospitable
looking white house, with long porches beyond masses of bare shrubbery.
It seemed that the welcoming look of the house was justified in the
attitude of its inmates, for the car had but stopped when the door flew
open, and Rufus Gray, his face beaming, bade them enter.
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