Here we stopped, and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried out, "Passengers for Rivermouth!" At last we had reached our journey's end.

On the platform my father shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very serene and rosy.

He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat, the collar of which came clear up above his cars.

He didn't look unlike a Pilgrim Father.

This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose house I was born.