"Nay, but he is so bespattered with his journey," says Thomas, "and wearied as well. He says his name is Penrose."
"Penrose—Penrose—the name hath a familiar ring;" said my father, musingly, and then: "Bid him never mind his spatters, but bring him in. He must needs be sore wearied and wet too, riding in this storm."
The gentleman presently entered—an elderly man and thin—his riding dress plain, almost to shabbiness. My father rose courteously to receive him.
"You do not know me, Stephen," says the stranger: "yet we have been playmates many a day at Tremador Court—"
"Joslyn Penrose!" exclaimed my father, and then ensued a cordial greeting enow.
"And how is my good aunt?" asked my father presently. "She is an old lady by this time."
"She is gone where are neither old nor young," answered the stranger, sadly. "My good old friend and patroness was buried more than ten days ago. You should have been bidden to the funeral, but the weather was warm, and we had to hasten matters."
"'Tis just as well!" said my father. "I don't believe she would have asked me if she had had her way, for I was never in her good graces since the day I was so maladroit as to kill her cat with my cross-bow. 'Twas a mere piece of ill-luck, for I would not have hurt a hair of poor puss if I had only seen her. Well, she is gone, and peace to her soul! I hope she has made thee her heir, after all these years, Joslyn!"
"Nay, that she has not!" answered Master Penrose. "'Tis even that which has brought me here."
"The old cat!" exclaimed my father.