“Seventy-two, Lucinda. I was born in October, while your mother was two years younger than I, and born in August. I didn’t think to outlive her, seeing she was younger, but I have.”
“I think it was imprudent in a man of your age coming so far,” said Mrs. Ross.
“I was all alone, Lucinda. My daughter died last spring, and I wanted to be near some one that was akin to me, so I’ve come to see the only relations I’ve got left on earth.”
“That’s very cool,” thought Mrs. Ross. “He expects us to support him, I suppose. He looks as poor as poverty. He ought to have gone to the poorhouse in his old home.”
To be sure, she would not like to have had it known that she had an uncle in the poorhouse; but, so far away as Illinois, it would not have been known to any of her Eastern friends, and wouldn’t matter so much.
“I will speak to Colonel Ross about it, Mr. Wilkins,” she said, coldly. “You can stay to supper, and see him then.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Wilkins. I’m your Uncle Obed,” said the old man.
“You may be my uncle, but I am not sufficiently acquainted with you yet for that,” she answered. “You can come upstairs, if you feel tired, and lie down till supper time.”
“Thank you, I will,” said Uncle Obed.
The offer of Mrs. Ross was dictated not so much by kindness as by the desire to get her shabby uncle well out of the way, and have a chance for a private conference with her husband, whom she expected every minute.