"No, uncle," she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.
"Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?"
"Nothing—that is, nothing that one can talk about."
"What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That's something new, is it not?"
"One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. Besides, you know—"
"I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet happier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them. "Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a presentiment. What is it?"
"Oh, uncle—"
"Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving."
"Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so silent?"
"Silent about what?"