Jessie then looked at her mother, and said—
“Ma, Uncle means me and Guy, by his intruders. We went into his room last night to hang his watch-pocket over his bedstead.”
“But what about the hole in the wall, Jessie? Did you and Guy dig that?” asked Hugh.
“Ha, ha, ha! That’s only Uncle Morris’s fun. Guy bored a little hole with his gimblet, to screw in the hook which was meant to hang the pocket on; that’s all,” replied Jessie.
“No, that wasn’t all, either,” said Mr. Morris, “for my little puss left the cutest little velvet watch-pocket I ever saw, hanging on the hook. There was some witchery in it, too, for it kept me awake over an hour. It seemed to hop down on to my pillow, and buzz in my ear, saying, ‘I am a love-gift. The little girl who made me, made your quilt, made your slippers, and is going to make you a cushion. A pesky little creature tried hard to hinder her from doing it, but her love for you was so strong, she drove him away. I don’t think there is any other old gentleman in Duncanville, loved by either niece or daughter, half so well as you are loved by the little miss whose nimble fingers made me!’ Talking thus, the pocket kept me from going to sleep, until I began to fancy that my Jessie must have put a fairy into it.”
“O Uncle Morris!” cried Jessie, with a glowing face and a heart dancing to joy-beats, as it perceived the affection for her, which Uncle Morris only partly concealed under his quaint and fanciful way of speaking. She craved no higher reward, than these expressions of his love for her.
After breakfast and family prayers were over, Mr. Morris turned to his niece, and said:
“Jessie!”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“I am going to take a little walk, before I go to hear our minister’s Thanksgiving sermon. Will you go?”