"Poor—poor George!"
"Being a man of action, uncle George was never much of a talker, as you know—but he is more silent than ever these days. In London he would sit all day long in a dreadful apathy, and all night long I would hear him go tramping, tramping to and fro in his chamber—"
"O Perry dear—if he could only weep!"
"Aunt Julia, there is but one power on earth could bestow on him such blessed relief, and that is your love, the certain assurance that you do love him—the touch of your lips—"
"O Peregrine—oh, hush! Do you mean—" and my goddess-like aunt faltered and sat there, lovely eyes downcast, blushing like the merest girl.
"Yes, you beautiful Aunt," said I, "this is what I mean—this whose simple mention has turned you into a girl of sixteen, this wonderful truth that uncle Jervas had divined already." And I told her of his dying words: "'You will marry her after all, George—our Julia. I see now that she always loved you best!'"
"Oh, dear Jervas!" she murmured.
"He has left uncle George who loved him so greatly, very solitary—listen, dear Aunt!"
Up to us through the open lattice, borne upon the fragrant air, came that small, soft sound where my uncle George paced ceaselessly to and fro amid the gathering dusk.
"Poor George!" she whispered tenderly.