CHAPTER XIX.
THE DEATH OF UNCLE BOB.
"There is no such thing as a trifle in the world," says the Spanish proverb. "When we remember how inextricably the lives of all mankind are tangled together, it seems as if every word and action moved a lever which set in motion a gigantic machine whose effect is beyond our control." Such has been the workings of those of whom our little history treats, and yet the labor is not completed.
Charles Belmont would arrive before dinner the next day after the incidents of our last chapter, and Ellen St. Clair was expected, of course, to be nervous and excited; but much to the chagrin of the mother of the young gentleman, at least, she was neither. One might well accuse her of indifference or disinterestedness, so calm and quiet did she appear. It was proposed that they should ride over to the depot to meet him, but she thought it "tiresome."
"Then let us go to the village for the letters," suggested Rose; but even that was "unnecessary," and, besides, it was Jim's work, and for one she did not "like to infringe upon the rights of others," she declared, with the merriest of laughs.
"Then," said George, coming to the rescue, "we will take Anna out and show her the orange groves."
"That is just the thing; a walk was what was most needed."
"And Ellen is suited at last," exclaimed Rose, in a pet.