"Have you ever been to Bristol, Uncle Guy?" inquired Felicia.
"No, never. I suppose you had no opportunities for seeing the sights of the place?"
"On Sundays, when mother was pretty well, we used to go to the Cathedral, or to St. Mary Redcliffe, or to one or another of the city churches; and one afternoon last summer we went to Clifton and crossed the Suspension Bridge to the Leigh woods. Oh, that was splendid! We did have such a good time! We went home by the hot wells—"
Felicia broke off, suddenly remembering that never as long as she lived would she share a pleasure again with the dear companion of those days. Her uncle noticed her emotion, but he made no comment upon it; instead, he turned his attention from her, and rising, moved about the room as though in search of something. By-and-by Felicia, having furtively wiped her eyes, glanced towards him and saw he was turning over a heap of books on a side table at the end of the room.
"What are you looking for, Uncle Guy?" she asked. "Can I help you search for it?"
"No, thank you. Here it is. It is only an old photograph album I thought I should like to show you, in which there are several likenesses of your father taken when he was a boy."
Uncle and niece seated themselves on the sofa side by side whilst they looked through the pages of the album. Felicia was delighted with the photographs of her father, and also those of her grandparents; but she was disappointed that there was not even one of her uncle, and said so.
"Did you never have your likeness taken, Uncle Guy?" she inquired.
"Good gracious, no, child! Who would want the picture of an ugly fellow like me—a hunchback?"
She caught the ring of mingled pain and bitterness in his tone, and remained silent for a minute, uncertain what answer to make. That he was very sensitive on the point of his deformity she was aware, for her cousins had told her he shrank from meeting strangers on that account, but he had never mentioned it to her before.