She went on:
“There were two boy cousins, Robert and John, and a little Nellie, a sweet, gentle-natured little thing, whom I learned to love very soon. Besides these two cousins, there was another boy, a good deal older than any of us, who spent all his vacations at Uncle Bell’s. He had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother. Uncle Bell was his mother’s brother and his guardian, so that he called that his home. He was to have a great fortune by-and-by, so we all knew; but I remember pitying him so much, and thinking I would not give my dear father for a thousand times his wealth. One day, when we three girls were talking about this, and thinking how very dreadful it must be, he heard us, and coming out of the library where he had been reading, said:
“‘You need not pity me, I shall never have to grieve for my relations.’
“It struck me then, and made me thoughtful and sad many times afterwards, that I might soon be called upon to mourn for papa over the sea; but I learned to like Willie better than the rest, because he, like me, was alone in the world. He used to tell us stories, and play on the piano for us very often, and was so gentle and good tempered that everybody loved him.
“I remember how the dog started up and ran at the sound of his footsteps, and there was no place pussy liked so well as his shoulder or knee for a sleeping place. His voice was very sweet, and his eyes so bright and kind, that every one was happier for a glance from them. I liked him so much that, after a while, no place seemed so charming as the seat by his side, and he always smoothed away difficulties as if by magic. Once I asked him if he ever got angry.
“‘Oh, yes, a great many times—I am provoked half the time—something is always vexing me.’
“‘You never seem to be. You never show it. How can you help it?’
“‘It only makes things worse to talk. I whistle when I am angry.’
“He smiled, too, I believe, for his face was always sunny, and in its cheerful light I sometimes grew ashamed of my melancholy feelings and of being vexed by trifles. He had faults, for, afterwards, I found them out; but in those days he seemed a perfect being to me, and by and by, I became almost as enthusiastically devoted to him as I was to papa.
“He never talked to us much about being good—he acted a lesson for us—and untruth, meanness or anger fled from his presence. I never saw him hurt any thing, though he was tall and strong and active. When you are older, you will read Sir Galahad, or sometime, if you like, I will read it to you, and then you can know better what he was like, than I can tell you.