He had no reason to be surprised; for wherever he went, the wide world over, did not all children call him “Uncle?”
II.
“When was it your brother went away, Julie?—how long ago? can you remember?” the captain asked one day as the little girl paced the deck at his side, her slender hand in his.
“It is a very long time, monsieur mon oncle,” she answered; and after thinking, “it is a year.”
“Now try to remember, if you can, something about the place where he lives. Did he never tell you about it?—did he write no letters?”
“Oh, yes, mon oncle; often to our mother, and for me, one time, a little letter—all in an envelope by itself. Always I carry it with me. Behold it!” she said, drawing it from her pocket.
“Ah! a letter!” cried the captain, greatly relieved, “that will help us.”
It was dated six months before, and postmarked “Philadelphia.” Within, too, was given the name of the street, and even the number of the residence.
“Ah!” gasped the captain, more relieved than ever.