Restless and unhappy, she wandered into the dining-room, where she found Mr. Dimmerly standing on the hearth-rug, and staring at the fire in a fit of the deepest abstraction. Lottie was so depressed as to feel that even a little comfort from him would be welcome; so she stole to his side and took his arm. He stroked her head with a gentleness quite unusual with him. Finally he said, in a voice that he meant to be very harsh and matter of fact, "Hasn't that nephew of mine got home yet? I feel as if I could break his head."
"And I feel," said Lottie, hiding her face on his shoulder, "as if he would break my heart, and you are the only one in the house who understands me or cares."
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, after a little, "others have been meddling; I think I will meddle a little."
Lottie started up in a way that surprised him, and with eyes flashing through her tears said, "Not a word to him, as you value my love."
"Hold on," said the little man, half breathlessly. "What's the matter? You go off like a keg of powder."
"I wouldn't sue for the hand of a king," said Lottie, heroically.
"Bless you, child, he isn't a king. He's only Frank Hemstead, my nephew,—bound to be a forlorn home missionary, he says."
"Well, then," she said, drawing a long breath, "if he can't see for himself, let him marry a pious Western giantess, who will go with him for the sake of the cause instead of himself."
"In the mean time," suggested Mr. Dimmerly, "we will go back to
New York and have a good time as before."
This speech brought to the warm-hearted girl another revulsion of feeling, and, again hiding her face on her uncle's shoulder, she sobbed, "I would rather be his slave on a desert island than marry the richest man in New York."