It's one of the few black velvet lids of the 1869 model still in captivity, ornamented with a bunch of indigo tinted violets, and kept from bein' lost off altogether by purple strings tied under the chin. Most of the rest of Aunty was obscured by the hand luggage she carries, which includes four assorted parcels done up in wrappin' paper, and a big, brass wire cage holdin' a ragged lookin' gray parrot that was tryin' to stick his bill through the bars and sample the passersby. She's a wrinkled faced, but well colored and hearty lookin' old girl, and the eyes that peeks out under the rim of the velvet lid is as keen and shrewd as a squirrel's. Whatever else she might be, it was plain Aunt Elvira wa'n't feeble minded. Behind her comes a couple of station porters, one cartin' an old-time black valise, and the other with his arms wrapped around a full sized featherbed in a blue and white tick. "Gee!" says I. "Aunty carries her own scenery with her, don't she?" "That's Bismarck in the cage," says Dyke. "How Bizzy has changed!" says I. "But why the feather mattress?" "She won't sleep on anything else," says he. "Watch how pleased my sisters look. They just love this--not! But she insists on having the whole family here to meet her." I must say for Mr. Mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him givin' the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. But Aunt Elvira don't waste much time swappin' fam'ly greetin's. "Where is Dyckman?" says she, settin' her chin for trouble. "Isn't he here?" "Oh, yes," says Mr. Mallory. "Right over there," and he points his cane handle to where Dyke and me are grouped on the side lines. "Here, hold Bismarck!" says Aunty, jammin' the brass cage into Mr. Mallory's arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. I never mistrusted she'd be in any doubt as to which was which, until I sees her look from one to the other, kind of waverin'. No wonder, though; for, from the descriptions she'd had, neither of us came up to the divinity student specifications. Yet it was something of a shock when she fixes them sharp old lamps on me and says: "Land to goodness! You?" "Reverse!" says I. "Here's the guilty party," and I pushes Dyke to the front. She don't gasp, or go up in the air, or throw any kind of a fit, like I expected. As she looks him over careful, from the sporty hat to the wide soled shoes, I notices her eyes twinkle. "Hum! I thought as much!" says she. "Craig always could lie easier than he could tell the truth. Young man, you don't look to me like a person called to hold orders." "Glad of it, Aunty," says Dyke, with a grin. "I don't feel that way." "And you don't look as if you had broken down your health studying for the ministry, either!" she goes on. "You don't mean to say they filled you up with that?" says Dyke. "Hee-haw!"