Uncle Jacob then took me across the garden, and introduced me to Mr. Carver, the father of William Henry, and to Grandmother,—old Mrs. Carver, as the neighbors called her.
She was a smiling, blue-eyed old lady, though with a little bit of an anxious look just between the eyes. I thought there was no doubt about her being a grandmother that would spoil boys.
“Why, there’s Towser, now?” said Uncle Jacob. “He didn’t come to meet me to-night.”
“He’s been there, off and on, pretty much all day,” said grandmother. “You see what he’s got his head on don’t you?”
“Billy’s old boots!” said Uncle Jacob.
“Yes. He set a good deal by Billy. I haven’t put the boots away yet,” she said, with a sigh.
“Here, Towser! come here, sir!” cried Uncle Jacob.
Towser was a big, shaggy, clever-looking dog. He got up slowly, sniffed at my trousers, then walked to Uncle Jacob, then round the room, then to the door, then up stairs and down again, and then back he went and lay down by the boots.
“He misses my grandson,” said grandmother to me, trying to smile about it.
The little girl, Georgiana, sat on a cricket, holding a kitten, tying and untying its ribbon. A square of patchwork had fallen on the floor. She stooped to pick it up and dropped her spool. That rolled away towards the door, and kitty jumped for it and soon got the thread in a tangle. The door opened so suddenly that she hopped up about two feet into the air and tumbled head over heels.