Old Uncle was looking over some accounts, and taking certain of his head-men to task for their short-comings. “What is it?” he cried sharply, as Ally hesitated.
“I—I—wanted to speak to you,” said Ally, and Old Uncle saw the tear still lying on her cheek.
“Well, then,” said Old Uncle to the two men whom he had been arraigning—some would say blowing up—a moment before, “you go out to the kitchen, and tell Diane to give you some of her buckwheat cakes and maple-syrup—Diane makes a good cup of coffee, too—and we’ll see to this later. But I’m not going to let any such carelessness pass! Now, little one!”
For a moment Ally hung back—and then, like a burst of the gale itself, she ran and climbed Old Uncle’s knee, and threw her arms about his neck, and told him every word of her story, her little face hidden under his chin.
“Well, well,” said Old Uncle, “that is bad. But it isn’t so bad it can’t be mended, maybe. Pretty tough on the squirrel. Yes, Ally, I, too, call it cruel.”
“Oh, it is, it is!” sobbed Ally. “We know it is! And Essie wants to take the nuts back.”
“In this storm?”
“Oh, we wouldn’t mind!”
“But you’d be drenched. And you’d take cold.”