It was all plain and straightforward. This was the very house designated on the tag, and he was Joseph Smith; but it was, also, a riddle too deep for him to guess.
“I see, I see. Well, since you are here we must make the best of it. I think there’s a mistake, but I dare say the morning will set it all right. Meanwhile, it’s snowing too fast to make any inquiries to-night. It is about dinner time, for me. Have you had your dinner?” asked the host.
“I had one on the train. That seems a great while ago,” said the guest.
“I beg pardon, but I think there is a little smut upon your pretty nose. After a railway journey travellers usually like to wash up, and so on. I don’t know much about little girls, yet”—he rather timidly suggested.
“I should be so glad. Just see my hands, Uncle Joe!” and she extended a pair of plump palms which sadly needed soap and water.
“I’m not your”—he began, meaning to set her right concerning their relationship; then thought better of it. What would a child do who had come to visit an unknown uncle and found herself in the home of a stranger? Weep, most likely. He didn’t want that. He’d had enough of tears, as witness one spoiled shirt-front. He began also to change his mind regarding the little one’s manners. She had evidently lived with gentlefolks and when some one came to claim her in the morning he would wish them to understand that she had been treated courteously.
So he rang for Peter, who appeared as suddenly as if he had come from the hall without.
“Been listening at the doorway, boy? Take care. Go up to the guest room, turn on the heat and light, and see that there are plenty of fresh towels. Take this young lady’s things with you. She will probably spend the night here. I hope you have a decent dinner provided.”
“Fine, Massa Joe. Just supreme. Yes, suh. Certainly, suh,” answered the servant.
“Uncle Joe, is there a bathroom in this house?” asked she.