“Yes, uncle,” I answered; “I think I may say so—except that I have not dwelt upon my feelings. Love, they say, is shy; and I fancy you will pardon me that portion.”
“Willingly, my child. More is quite unnecessary.”
“Then you know all about it, uncle?” I ventured. “I was afraid you might not understand me. Could any one, do you think, that had not had the same experience?”
He made me no answer. I looked up. He was ghastly white; his head had fallen back against the bed. I started up, hardly smothering a shriek.
“What is it, uncle?” I gasped. “Shall I fetch Martha?”
“No, my child,” he answered. “I shall be better in a moment. I am subject to little attacks of the heart, but they do not mean much. Give me some of that medicine on the table.”
In a few minutes his colour began to return, and the smile which was forced at first, gradually brightened until it was genuine.
“I will tell you the whole story one day,” he said, “—whether in this world, I am doubtful. But when is nothing, or where, with eternity before us.”
“Yes, uncle,” I answered vaguely, as I knelt again by the bedside.
“A person,” he said, after a while, slowly, and with hesitating effort, “may look and feel a much better person at one time than at another. Upon occasion, he is so happy, or perhaps so well pleased with himself, that the good in him comes all to the surface.”