"He is so—utterly forlorn, Aunt."
"Dear George!"
"And so very much a man, Aunt!"
"And such a child!" she murmured. "So big and strong and such a helpless baby! Dear George!"
Here I turned to my writing again, heard the door close softly and, glancing up, found myself alone. Then, tossing down my pen, I arose and from a cupboard reached forth a hat and well-filled knapsack which last I proceeded to buckle to my shoulders; this done, I took a stout stick from a corner and stood ready for my wanderings. Thus equipped, I crossed to the window that I might see if the coast was clear, since I meant to steal away with no chance of tears or sorrowful farewells.
They were standing on the terrace in the gathering dusk; as I looked, Aunt Julia reached up and, taking his haggard face between her gentle hands, drew it down lower and lower; and when she spoke, no ear save his might catch her soft-breathed words.
And then his great arms were fast about her and there broke from him a sobbing cry of ecstasy.
"O Julia—at last. He was right then—our Jervas was right!"
And so my uncle George learned to weep at last and found within her loving arms the blessed relief of tears.