“Louy, my dear child!” said the old man, with a comical look of perplexity in his face, “have some pity on me.”
“My dearest uncle,” she sobbed, as she drew his face down to hers.
“Yes,” he said, kissing her; “that’s all very well, and affectionate, and nice; but do look here. You know how I live, and why I live as I do.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“To save myself from worry and anxiety. I am saving myself from trouble, am I not? Here, let go of my hand, and I’ll send off another message to hasten your father up, so as to set me free.”
“No, uncle, dear, you will not leave me,” she said, with a pleading look in his eyes.
“There you go?” he cried. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much faith in me, Louy. You ought to know better; but you always would believe in me.”
“Yes, uncle, always,” said Louise, as she placed his hand upon her pillow, and her cheek in his palm.
“Well, all I can say is that it’s a great nuisance for me. But I’m glad I’ve found you, my dear, all the same.”
“After believing all manner of evil of me, uncle.”