The good old woman put her spectacles into her Bible, and flung herself into her boy's arms--her boy who was more than fifty years old.

She embraced Clive still more eagerly and frequently than she kissed his father.

She did not know her Colonel with them whiskers.

Clive was the very picture of the dear boy as he had left her almost twoscore years ago.

And as fondly as she hung on the boy, her memory had ever clung round that early time when they were together.