"Mr. Thomas Gray," announced the old butler at the door, with a peculiar expression on his countenance.
There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gray sat as if turned to stone, while David half rose from his seat and Hippy seized a bread and butter knife to plunge into the heart of his enemy, if necessary.
"Aunt Rose," cried a voice outside, "aren't you glad to see me?"
A broad-shouldered, well-built young man walked into the room and kissed the old lady right in the mouth, before she could say a word. He had a sunburned, wholesome face, kindly gray eyes, light-brown hair, and wore a heavy suit of rough, blue cloth. He carried no cane; neither were his shoes pointed at the toes, and there wasn't a tinge of English in his accent except that his enunciation was unusually good.
Mrs. Gray rose from her chair and examined the young man long and carefully.
"The very image of your uncle," she cried at last, and gave him a good hug. "The very image, my dear Tom. Your old aunty has been a most egregious fool. Why didn't you come last night?"
"Didn't you get my telegram? I sent it in good time. I was delayed and had to take the night train up. I am awfully sorry if it inconvenienced you."
"You haven't inconvenienced me, my boy, except for a slight loss of sleep, and a fright and a narrow of escape from losing the family silver, which David and Grace, here, prevented."
Then Mrs. Gray sat down and burst out laughing. The others joined in and for a few minutes the breakfast table was in an uproar.
The real Tom Gray, who was the image of his uncle's portrait over the sideboard, looked from one to another of the strange faces and then began to laugh too, since it seemed to be the proper thing to do. He had one of those delightful, hearty laughs that ring out in a whole roomful of voices. When Mrs. Gray heard it she stopped short, patting her nephew on the cheek; for he was sitting beside her now in a place hastily arranged by the butler.