"Grey Jerrold, Boston, Mass., 18—."
Very rapidly Grey talked of his travels, and the wonders beyond the sea.
"But, after all, America is best," he said, "and I am glad I am an American. Boston is the place to be born in. Don't you think so, grandpa?"
"Yes, yes. Did you go to Wales? To Carnarvon?" the old man said, so abruptly that Grey stopped short and stared at him blankly.
His Aunt Hannah had asked the same question. Could it be they were more interested in Carnarvon than in Mont Blanc and Vesuvius? If so, he would confine himself to Carnarvon, and he began again to describe the old castle, and the birth-room of the first Prince of Wales. Then his grandfather interrupted him by asking:
"Did you hear of any family there by the name of Rogers?"
"Rogers? No. Why? Did you ever know any one by that name who lived in Carnarvon?" Grey asked, and his grandfather replied:
"Yes, a great many years ago, longer than you can remember. Joel Rogers, that was the name, and he had a sister, Elizabeth. You did not hear of her?"
"Father, father; you are talking too much; you are getting excited and tired," Hannah interposed in some alarm, but her father replied:
"No. I'm not afraid of Grey, now that I see his face again; it's a face to be trusted. Grey would not harm his old grandfather. Would you, boy?" and the childish old man began to cry piteously, while Grey looked inquiringly at his aunt, and touched his forehead meaningly, as much as to say: