'Remember what you said to me, my dear,' my mother whispers as we enter the room. There is no one to receive us, but my Mother goes into an inner room, and comes out of it presently, and motions me with a tender smile to go in. I enter alone; an old man with white hair is standing by the window, looking towards the door. A grave expression is on his face, which is deeply lined; I recognise uncle Bryan immediately, although he is much changed. I had had in my mind a lingering hope that my mother was taking me to see Jessie; but in the pleasure of seeing uncle Bryan I lose sight for a few moments of my disappointment.
'Uncle,' I say, as I advance towards him with outstretched hand. He meets me half-way, and clasps my hand eagerly in his, and then turns aside with quivering lips, still holding my hand. I know that he has noticed both my pleasure and my disappointment, and I hope it is not the latter that causes him to turn aside.
I have said that he is changed, but I find it difficult to explain in what way he is different from what he was. It is not that his hair has grown quite white during the months that we have been parted, it is not that his form is bowed, or that his features are more deeply-lined; the same shrewd thoughtful expression is there, but in some undefinable way it is softened, and although the old look of self-reliance is in his eyes, it is less hard than it was. As I silently note these changes, I am reminded of a passage I read a few days before this meeting, in which a man is said to have had in his face an expression which might have been brought there by the touch of angel fingers on his eyelids while he slept.
'I received your message yesterday, my dear boy,' he says presently. 'Your mother brought it straight to me. It gladdened my heart inexpressibly.'
Then I know that my mother must have been in the habit of visiting him for some time; it does not surprise me to learn this; every day of her life brings me fresh proofs of her goodness.
'How long ago was it, uncle,' I ask, 'since mother discovered where you were living?'
'Quite a month, my dear boy,' he replies, and adds quickly, 'it was my wish that she should say nothing to you until I gave her permission.'
I smile softly at this defence of her.
'She can do nothing wrong,' I say. 'I think I know the spirit that lives in the hearts of angels.'
My mother, who is preparing tea for us, peeps in here.