The portrait and Peter were one and the same! His father had come to life.
"I don't know yet.

We'll think about that another time, but we won't do it now.

I ought to be ashamed of myself for having spoiled your evening by such serious talk (he wasn't ashamed--he had come for that very purpose).

Now show me some of your books and tell me what you read, and what you love best." He was out of the chair before he ceased speaking, his heels striking the floor, bustling about in his prompt, exact manner, examining the few curios and keepsakes on the mantel and tables, running his eyes over the rows of bindings lining the small bookcase; his hand on Jack's shoulder whenever the boy opened some favorite author to hunt for a passage to read aloud to Peter, listening with delight, whether the quotation was old or new to him.
Jack, suddenly remembering that his guest was standing, tried to lead him back to his seat by the fire, but Peter would have none of it.
"No--too late.

Why, bless me, it's after eleven o'clock! Hear the music--they are still at it.