“Here’s cousin John come to see ’ee, mother,” said Isaac, bending over her. “John? What John?” said the old lady. It struck Edwin at once that her speech was purer and more delicate than that of her son. “John Ingleby, Aunt Lydia,” said Edwin’s father. “You need not raise your voice, my dear,” she said. “My sight and my hearing are wonderful, thank God.” “Then you remember me, Aunt Lydia?” “Of course I remember you, John. Though it’s many and many years since my eyes saw you. And how are you, my dear? They tell me that you have done great things in the world. You’re a doctor, like poor Dr. Marshall.” “No . . . I’m not a doctor. I’m in business. I’m a chemist.” “I knew it was something of the kind. You needn’t speak so loud. And they told me you had married. I suppose this is your boy. A fine boy, surely. He has a look of your grandfather.” . . . “Yes, this is Edwin.” “I don’t remember that name in our family. It sounds like a fanciful name. Come here, my dear, and let me look at you.” Edwin went to her, and she kissed him. Her face was so cold and smooth that she might almost have been dead. “And how is your dear wife, John?” “I’ve had a terrible blow, Aunt Lydia. I’ve lost her.” “Ah . . . that was bad for you, and bad for the boy, too.” “I shall never get over it.” Mr. Ingleby’s voice trembled. “Yes, of course, you say that. It’s natural that you should. You’re young. But when you live to be as old as I am you’ll know better. You will get over it. When a few years have gone by you’ll marry again.” “Never, Aunt Lydia . . . never. . .” “Yes. . . . That’s what you feel now. But I know the family. The Inglebys are always very tender in marriage. I’ve seen many of them that have lost their wives, and they always marry again. I don’t suppose that I shall live to hear of it; but when the time comes you’ll remember what I said.” “No, Aunt Lydia . . . never.” “Time is a wonderful thing, John. I’m glad to have seen you and your boy. I hope he’ll take after you—you were always the best of them.” She gave a little sigh. Evidently she was tired. The flame that burned behind her black eyes was so very feeble for all its brightness. Isaac, who had been watching her with the devotion of a practised nurse, saw that she could not stand any more talking. “Now, mother, that’s enough, my dear,” he said. “Kiss me, John,” she said. And Mr. Ingleby kissed her. “Well, now that you be here after all these years,” said Isaac cheerily, as he rearranged the red shawl round his mother’s shoulders, “you won’t leave us without taking something. There do be a lovely bit of bacon I have cut. Do ’ee try a bit now, and a mug of cider.”