On the following morning, without any concert or debate, and scarcely asking why, the little things went hand in hand, united more than ever by the recent visitation, as far as the door of their fatherʼs bedroom. There they slank behind a curtain; and when he came out, the rings above fluttered with fear and love and hope. Much as the fatherʼs heart was craving, he made believe to walk onward, till Craddy ran out, neck or nothing, and sprang into his arms. After this great event, their lives flowed on very happily into boyhood, youth, and manhood. They heartily loved and respected their father; they could never be enough with John Rosedew; and although they quarrelled and fought sometimes, they languished and drooped immediately when parted from one another. As for Biddy OʼGaghan, now a high woman in the household, her only difficulty was that she never could tell of her two boys which to quote as the more astounding. “If you plase, maʼam”, she always concluded, “thereʼll not be so much as the lean of a priest for anybody iver to choose atwane the bootiful two on them. No more than there was on the day when my blissed self—murder now!—any more, I manes, nor the differ a peg can find ’twane a murphy and a purratie. And a Murphy I must be, to tark, so free as I does, of the things as is above me. Says Patrick OʼGeoghegan to meself one day—glory be to his sowl, and a gintleman every bit of him, lave out where he had the small–pux—ʼBiddy’, he says, ’hould your pratie–trap, or Iʼll shove these here bellises down it’. And for my good it would have been, as I am thankful to acknowledge that same, though I didnʼt see it that day, thank the Lord. Ah musha, musha, a true gintleman he were, and lave me out his fellow, maʼam, if iver you comes acrass him”. But, in spite of Biddyʼs assertion, there were many points of difference, outward and inward too, between Cradock and Clayton Nowell. By this time the “Violet” was obsolete, except with Sir Cradock, who rather liked it, and with young Crad, who had corrupted it into the endearing “Viley”. John Rosedew had done his utmost to extinguish the misnomer, being sensitive on the subject, from his horror of false concord, as attributed to himself. Although the twins were so much alike in stature, form, and feature that it required care to discern them after the sun was down, no clear–sighted person would miscall them when they both were present, and the light was good. Clayton Nowellʼs eyes were brown, Cradockʼs a dark grey; Cradockʼs hair was one shade darker, and grew more away from his forehead, and the expression of his gaze came from a longer distance. Clayton always seemed up for bantering; Cradock anxious to inquire, and to joke about it afterwards, if occasion offered. Then Cradockʼs head inclined, as he walked, a little towards the left shoulder; Claytonʼs hung, almost imperceptibly, somewhat to the right; and Cradockʼs hands were hard and dry, Claytonʼs soft as good French kid.