“By Jinks, this is great!” he exclaimed.
John James, descending, received and returned his vigorous hand-grip; kissed Mary, his sister-in-law; was rushed at and embraced by three strange women who addressed him as “Cousin John.” Then they all stood in a group and talked at once. “But come in!” said Asher suddenly—“come in and see father. He’ll be overjoyed. He’s insisted on Sarah goin’ to the depot every day for a week, on the chance of your comin’.” So John James went in to see his father.
He trembled a little under the keen and searching gaze of the old man, who got up and took him by both shoulders, turning his face to the light.
“You’re changed, boy, changed!” he said tremulously. “Seems like you’re steadier, graver. But you’ve lost your wife Annie. It’s natural, after all. It’s a good deal to me to see you to-day.”
And John James Alston suddenly shrank into himself and felt like the impostor he was.
“Yes, I think he’s changed—a little,” said Asher’s wife, surveying him closely. “But it’s ten years; and people and things don’t stand still. There’s the baby, your namesake, John.”
She ran into the bedroom at a child’s cry and brought out a round-faced, curly-haired two-year-old, whom she deposited on Uncle John’s knee. He said, “Great Scott!” and clutched the new burden awkwardly, conscious of extreme confusion of mind.
“That comes of not being used to children,” cried Mrs. Sarah, merrily, catching at the child. “Here, Mary; he’s not safe. John’s got to have some lessons in baby-tending.” And all the women laughed.
If John James Alston ever fancied a country life lacking in variety, he changed his mind from that day. They took him out to see the cattle, and Asher dwelt on their strong points. He was made to take note of the rakish, upward curve in the noses of the Berkshire hogs, and saw the prize pullets and the Toulouse geese. He heard about the rotation of crops. And though he tried his best to say the right thing at the right moment, he saw one and another look at him sometimes in a puzzled way that made his blood run cold. And this was a queer sensation for the dignified, self-possessed John J. Alston of New York.
That night he was shown to the best upstairs bedroom; there was just enough space for the mountainous bed, the bureau, washstand, and one chair. He turned back the heavy coverlets and stood regarding the swelling height before him. “Great Scott!” he murmured. “I never slept in a feather-bed in my life. Wonder how far I shall sink down.”