Uncle Terry: A Story of the Maine Coast

by Charles Clark Munn

The last evening was passed much like the first, except that now the elusive Alice seemed to be transformed into a far more gracious hostess, and all her smiles and interest seemed to be lavished upon Frank instead of her brother. It was as if this occult little lady had come to feel a new and surprising curiosity in all that concerned the life and amusements of her visitor. With true feminine skill she plied him with all manner of questions, and affected the deepest interest in all he had to say. What were his sisters' amusements? Did they entertain much, play tennis, golf, or ride? Where did they usually go summers, and did he generally go with them? His own comings and goings, and where he had been and what he saw there, were also made a part of the grist he was encouraged to grind. She even professed a keen interest in his yacht, and listened patiently to a most elaborate description of that craft, although as a row-boat was the largest vessel she had ever set foot on, it is likely she did not gain a very clear idea of the "Gypsy."

"Your yacht has a very suggestive name," she said; "it makes one think of green woods and camp-fires. I should dearly love to take a sail in her. I have read so much about yachts and yachting that the idea of sailing along the shores in one's own floating house, as it were, has a fascination for me."

This expression of taste was so much in line with Frank's, and the idea of having this charming girl for a yachting companion so tempting, that his face glowed.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he responded, "than to have you for a guest on my boat, Miss Page. I think it could be managed if I could only coax my mother and sisters to go, and you and your brother would join us. We would visit the Maine coast resorts and have no end of a good time."

"It's a delightful outing you suggest," she answered, "and I thank you very much; but I wouldn't think of coming if your family had to be coaxed to go, and then, it's not likely that Bert could find the time."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said, looking serious, "only mother and the girls are afraid of the water, that is all."

When conversation lagged Frank begged that she would sing for him, and suggested selections from Moody and Sankey; and despite her brother's sarcastic remark that it wasn't a revival meeting they were holding, she not only played and sang all those time-worn melodies, but a lot of others from older collections. When retiring-time came, Frank asked that she conclude with "Ben Bolt."

"I shall not need to recall that song to remind me of you," he said in a low voice as he spread it on the music rack in front of her, "but I shall always feel its mood when I think of you."

"Does that mean that you will think of me as sleeping 'in a corner obscure and alone' in some churchyard?" she responded archly.

"By no means," he said, "only I may perhaps have a little of the same mood at times that Ben Bolt had when he heard of the fate of his sweet Alice."