Something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had uttered for many a long year, was smothered on the gentle lips.
"I could not know that—I could not know that, Stella! Your father thought it best—I have his last letter. My child, do not cry——"
She raised her face.
"I am not crying; I never cry when I think of papa, uncle, Why should I? I loved him too well to wish him back from Heaven."
The old man looked down at her with a touch of awe in his eyes.
"Yes, yes," he murmured; "it was his wish that you should remain there at school. He knew what I was, an aimless dreamer, a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian for a young girl. Oh, yes, Harold knew. He acted for the best, and I was content. My life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless for a young girl, and I thought that all was right, while those fiends——"
She put her hand on his arm.
"Do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle. You will let me stay with you, will you not? I shall not think your life lonely; it will be a Paradise after that which I have left—Paradise. And, see, I will strive to make it less lonely; but"—and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear—"but perhaps I shall be in your way?" and she looked round.
"No, no," he said, and he put his hand to his brow. "It is strange! I never felt my loneliness till now! and I would not have you go for all the world!"
She wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there was silence for a space; then he said: