"What else did he say?" I queried breathlessly.
"Nothing much—only he asked me whether I didn't think it was wise to get settled there as soon as possible. He is very nice to me."
"Is that all?" I breathed.
"Yes, that's about all—but isn't that enough?"
I smiled feebly and sank into my chair with immense relief.
I longed to draw her to me, to enfold her, to rest her head against my heart, to hold her close and to exclude thereby all black care and worry, all overhanging shadows, all the threatening and looming clouds of existence—to make my world blissfully complete. But I am only "Uncle Ranny" to her—and I felt a shudder pass down my spine.
"And you, Alicia," I managed to say. "What did you answer?"
"Of course, I said that was true—what could I say? But oh, Uncle Ranny," she leaned toward me as she stood at my desk, "I am afraid, Uncle Ranny! They are ours—aren't they—I know he's their father, but I can't help feeling as though we were—handing them over to a stranger—Oh, I suppose I ought not say it—some one we don't know at all!"
And she burst into tears.
Blood and flesh could not bear it longer. I twitched and writhed in my chair for an instant, then I leaped up and threw my arms about her and strained her to me.