“Uncle Oliver! how kind you are to visit me!” cried Mrs. Forbush, the tears starting from her eyes.
“Kind! Nonsense! I have been very unkind to neglect you so long. But it wasn't all my fault. There were others who did all they could to keep us apart. You have lost your husband?”
“Yes, uncle. He was poor, but he was one of the kindest and best of men, and made me happy.”
“I begin to think I have been an old fool, Rebecca. Philip thinks so, too.”
“Oh, Mr. Carter!” exclaimed our hero.
“Yes, you do, Philip,” asserted Mr. Carter, “and you are quite right. However, as you told me, it is never too late to mend.”
“Mrs. Forbush will think I take strange liberties with you, sir.”
“I don't object to good advice, even from a boy. But who is this?”
Julia had just entered the room. She was a bright, attractive girl, but held back bashfully until her mother said:
“Julia, this is Uncle Oliver Carter. You have heard me speak of him.”