But the voice of his aged relative recalled him to his duty. With fond superstition he folded one handkerchief and put it in his bosom, with her bright hair next his heart. The others he folded carefully and put in his chest. Then he went below to hew wood and fetch water for the needs of the little home.
Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner hour, when her short, impulsive resentment melted away before the mournful, even meek, reserve of his manner.
After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat down at the piano, and played for him us usual, until the hour of retiring.
The next morning, after their breakfast, as she turned to go up stairs, he called to her:
“Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the library and sit with me, as usual?”
“No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write to Aunt Agrippina.”
“Can you not write it at one of the library tables?”
“I would rather go up into my room, uncle.”
“But why?”
“Because—well—I would rather.”