He of the Gratcher-eye could positively not see around a corner, if, for example, Allan himself was there; the Gratcher-eye could not tell if his hat was on his head or off.

But this by no means proved that the Gratcher-eye did not exercise its magic function when a Gratcher actually approached, and Allan knew it.

He would stand staunchly, with a fine incredulity, while the little boy called off the strides, perhaps, until he announced "_Now_ he's just passed the well-curb--_now_ he's--" but here, scoffing over an anxious shoulder, Allan would go in where Clytie was baking, feigning a sudden great hunger.
Nancy would stay, because she believed the little boy's protestations that he could save her, and the little boy himself often believed them.
"I love Allan best, because he is so comfortable, but I think you are the most admirable," she would say to him at such times; and he thought well of her if she had seemed very, very frightened.
So life had become a hardy sport with him.

No longer was he moved to wish for early dissolution when Clytie's song floated to him: "'I should like to die,' said Willie, If my papa could die, too; But he says he isn't ready, 'Cause he has so much to do!" This Willie had once seemed sweet and noble to him, but the words now made him avid of new life by reminding him that his own dear father would soon come to be with him one week, as he had promised when last they parted, and as a letter written with magnificent flourishes now announced.
Late in August this perfect father came--a fine laughing, rollicking, big gentleman, with a great, loud voice, and beautiful long curls that touched his velvet coat-collar.

His sweeping golden moustache, wide-brimmed white hat, the choice rings on his fingers, his magnificently ponderous gold watch-chain and a watch of the finest silver, all proclaimed him a being of such flawless elegance both in person and attire that the little boy never grew tired of showing him to the village people and to Clytie.