“Yes, Murray.”
“And he told you that he must be away from home for a little?”
“Yes, dear. We won’t talk of it now.”
“But why not?” said Murray. “Why not talk of it to me? You see I am accustomed to the sort of thing, Aunt Nancy; when I was young, quite a little fellow, I had a mad, passionate feeling for Uncle Adrian, and when he went away as he has done now and would give no address, I used nearly to go wild. I used to stray off all by myself and have a terrible time. But by-and-by, I saw it was foolish to make myself ill. He always came back again, and I was glad, very glad, to see him. I thought him perfect then,” concluded the boy.
“And you don’t think him perfect now?” said Nance.
He looked full at her, shut up his lips and was silent.
“I think you perfect,” he said after a long pause. “Don’t fret too much, Aunt Nancy; but if you do fret, talk about it all to me, for though I am a boy in years, some things have happened—yes, they have happened here at beautiful Rowton Heights—which have turned me into a man. There are times when I think I am almost an old man, for I feel quite a weight of care, although, of course, I don’t talk of it. Don’t keep your grief too much to yourself, Aunt Nancy, and be sure of one thing—that Uncle Adrian will come back. Some day he’ll walk into the room. He’ll just whistle as he knows how, and open the door and come in, and then it will be all sunshine.”
“You are a dear little chap,” said Nancy, bending forward and kissing him.
He flushed when she did so.