They shook hands cordially, scanning each other with earnest and friendly eyes.
"I should have known you, of course, from your picture, if not from Peggy's ardent descriptions," said Hugh Montfort.
"And I ought to have known you, surely," cried Margaret; "only, not knowing you were in this part of the country, you see—"
"Uncle John did not get my letter? It ought to have reached him some days ago. I was coming on to Cambridge, and wrote as soon as I started. No wonder you were surprised, being hailed as cousin by an unheralded vagabond with a stick."
"Oh, why do you stand?" cried Margaret. "Sit down, Cousin Hugh; to think of its being really you; I have wanted to see and know you ever since—oh, for ever so long. Hark! there comes Uncle John now. How delighted he will be!"
"Margaret, my dear!" called Mr. Montfort from the hall. "I have just had a letter—most surprising thing—from—hallo! what's all this? Hugh, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you. Got here before your letter, eh? How did that happen? Never mind, so long as you are here now. Well, well, well! sit down here, and let me look at you. This is a pleasure indeed. Your father's eyes; I should know them in a Chinaman; not that you look like a Chinaman. How are they all at home? How's your father? When did you leave home? Have you had anything to eat? What would you like? Margaret, my dear, get Hugh something to eat, he's probably starved."
Hugh laughingly disclaimed starvation, and begged to wait till their tea-time. "I am not hungry, truly I am not," he said. "There is so much to say, too, isn't there, Uncle John? Father is very well and hearty. I have a pipe for you in my bag. I brought a bag with me; do you suppose you could put me up for a few days, Uncle?"
Reassured by Mr. Montfort's earnest assurance that he should keep him all summer, Hugh leaned back in his chair, and looked about him with eager eyes.
"This is the library!" he said. "Uncle John, ever since I learned to read, one of my dreams has been to see this room. Father has always told us about it, and where his favorite books were, and where you all used to sit when you came here to read."
He rose and, crossing the room, took a book from a shelf without a moment's hesitation. "Here is the 'Morte d'Arthur,'" he said; "you see I knew where to find it. And Father used to sit on top of that stepladder."