The old man drew vigorously on his pipe several times, and finding it had gone out, rose for a lighter. “You think,” said he, puffing between his words as he relit his pipe, contemplatively watching the tongue of flame darting down into the bowl, “that we should have her of the party?” “Most assuredly. She is a fine girl,—you would like her. In fact, we must have her here if possible.” “Yes,” said the old man, “yes.” And he gazed at the bright coals. He felt that he had not landed his trout. “So you didn’t lose your heart?” “My heart? Who, I?” And Charley gave a loud laugh. “The very idea amuses you?” “I should think so! I suppose you suspect that old Cousin Sally’s niece—or Cousin Sally’s old niece—whichever you please—captivated me?” “No, I was not thinking of Sarah Ann. In fact, I didn’t know that any one had captivated you—till you mentioned it.” “Well, upon my word, I have finished the last of these oysters,—and there is not so much turkey as there was.” “Well, now we will have an old-time whiff together; and now begin your story. However, before you do, can you think of any other girl who would be an acquisition for Christmas?” “Who? Bless me, Uncle Tom, what could have put such a notion into your head? Oh, I’ll tell you,—leave it all to Jack-Whack; he’s the ladies’ man of the family, you know.” “Very well; and now fill your pipe and tell me all those strange things about that strange Mr. Smith, that you promised me in your letters.” Charley told the story, with one omission. He failed to allude to his having invited the Don to visit Elmington. Omissions to state all manner of things that ordinary mortals would make haste to mention was one of Charley’s idiosyncrasies,—so that I suspect that his silence on this point was premeditated. Another was, as I have already hinted, an aversion to expressing an opinion of any one, good or bad. But Mr. Whacker felt instinctively that Charley had conceived a genuine liking for this mysterious stranger. A tone here, a look there, told the tale. Charley’s likings, being rare, were exceedingly strong. Moreover, they were never, I may say, misplaced, and my grandfather knew this. So, when Charley had finished his narrative, “You have,” said he, “interested me deeply. Who _can_ he be? But be he who he may, he is obviously no common man.” Charley puffed away slowly at his pipe. “He is a remarkable man,” continued my grandfather, warming up. “He has points about him,” said Charley, driven to say something. “Yes, and characteristic points, highly characteristic points,” said the old gentleman, with a sort of defiant emphasis. “He has, beyond question.”