"I knew your—I knew a Jesse Dick," she said, "years ago."
The boy stood up. "Yes? Did you?"
"He died in the Civil War. At Donelson. He was killed—at Donelson."
The boy spatted his hands together a little, briskly, to rid them of a bit of dried mud that had clung to the galoshes. "That must have been my grandfather's brother," he said politely. "I've heard them speak of him."
He had heard them speak of him. Charlotte Thrift, with seventy-four years of a ruined life heavy upon her, looked at him. He had heard them speak of him. "Pomroy Dick? Your grandfather? Pomroy Dick?"
"Why, yes! Yes. Did you know him, too? He wasn't—we Dicks aren't—How did you happen to know him?"
"I didn't know your grandfather Pomroy Dick," said Great-aunt Charlotte, and smiled so that the withered lips drew away from the blue-white, even teeth. "It was Jesse I knew." She looked up at him. "Jesse Dick."
Charley leaned over and pressed her fresh dewy young lips to the parchment cheek. "Now isn't that interesting! Good-bye dear." She stopped and flashed a mischievous glance at the boy. "Was he a poet too, Aunt Charlotte?"
"Yes."
Jesse Dick turned his head quickly at that. "He was? I didn't know that. Are you sure? No one in our family ever said——"