'Yes, uncle.'
If I could give her to you, my dear boy----'
But I stop him here, and beg him in scarcely distinct words not to continue the subject.
'But one word, Chris,' he says; 'you love her still?'
'With all my heart, uncle, and shall all my life. But it hurts me to speak of her; I can bear it better in silence.'
My mother calls out that tea is ready, and once more we three sit down together.
'I miss the little parlour,' my mother says; 'how many happy years we lived there!'
She forgets all the sorrow and pain we experienced there, and recalls only the tenderest reminiscences. Occasionally a flash of uncle Bryan's old humour gives piquancy to the conversation, but there is now no bitterness or cynicism in what he says. At eight o'clock my mother puts on her bonnet; I am surprised that we are going so early, but she says it is a fine night and that she feels inclined for a walk.
'Uncle Bryan will walk with us,' I say.
My mother shakes her head, smilingly, and says she does not want him. I look towards uncle Bryan; he does not seem in the least disturbed.