“They're all Pepperses,” said Percy, waving his hand, and doing the business up at one stroke.
“Only the best of 'em isn't here,” observed Van, rather ungallantly, “he draws perfectly elegant, papa!”
“I like Polly best, I do!” cried little Dick, tumbling after. “Peppers!” again repeated Mr. Whitney in a puzzled way.
“And here is Mrs. Pepper,” said old Mr. King, pompously drawing her forward, “the children's mother, and—”
But here Mrs. Pepper began to act in a very queer way, rubbing her eyes and twisting one corner of her black apron in a decidedly nervous manner that, as the old gentleman looked up, he saw with astonishment presently communicated itself to the gentleman opposite.
“Is it,” said Mr. Whitney, putting out his hand and grasping the hard, toil-worn one in the folds of the apron, “is it cousin Mary?”
“And aren't you cousin John?” she asked, the tears in her bright black eyes.
“Of all things in this world!” cried the old gentleman, waving his head helplessly from one to the other. “Will somebody have the extreme goodness to tell us what all this means?”
At this the little Peppers crowded around their mother, and into all the vacant places they could find, to get near the fascinating scene.
“Well,” said Mr. Whitney, sitting down and drawing his wife to his side, “it's a long story. You see, when I was a little youngster, and—”