"A beautiful place it is, too—great trees lining the sloping bank, with a grassy plain beyond, backed by a forest reaching down to the edge of the town," he went on, as if reading from an advertisement.
"It must be fine," I responded, nowise interested.
"It is not an island, though, in any sense, as one would suppose. Nor rocky, either, but with green, soft as velvet, reaching to the water's edge. At one time its people thought it would be a great city, perhaps the greatest, but already the belief is dying out. That is the way, though. A town springs up in a day, only to be followed later by a rush to some other place, and so everything has to be commenced anew"; and he sighed, as if these transformations had been the cause of many grievous disappointments to him in his short life.
"Have you ever lived in Rock Island?" I asked, seeing he wanted to talk.
"Yes, for a while, as I have in other places; but only to be caught up and carried on to some new town," he replied.
"Will you ever get fixed in one place, do you think?" I asked.
"How would you like to live in Rock Island for a while—say a month or two?" he replied, as if not hearing my idle question.
"Why do you ask, uncle?" I answered, wondering what he meant.
"Oh, we have a relative there. A sort of a cousin, named Rolland Love, and a very agreeable man, too. He married a second cousin of yours when young, but she dying, he has married again; so he is a cousin and not a cousin, if you can make that out."
"If he was once a cousin I suppose he is always a cousin, isn't he?" I answered.