There was a little more desultory chat, and then, having finished their meal, they repaired to the library, Mildred not a little curious to learn what her uncle had to say; for she felt quite certain from his manner that it was something of unusual importance.
He drew an easy chair to the fire, seated her comfortably therein, then turning away, paced the floor for some moments in silence, and with an abstracted air and clouded brow.
She watched him furtively, wondering more and more at his evident disturbance.
At last, heaving a profound sigh, he seated himself near her,
"You are already acquainted, Mildred, so your Aunt Wealthy informed me," he began, in the tone of one who approaches a very distasteful subject, "with a certain chapter in my son Horace's history, which I would be exceedingly glad to bury in forgetfulness; but that circumstances have rendered impossible—since the child of that most imprudent, ill-advised marriage has seen fit to live, and of course her existence cannot be entirely ignored."
Mildred was growing indignant. Her color heightened and her eyes sparkled; though unperceived by him, as his face was half averted.
"Is there anything wrong with her, uncle?" she ventured as he came to a pause.
"Wrong with her?" he echoed. "Heaven forbid! It is bad enough as it is. But, indeed, I have never taken the trouble to ask. In fact, I believe I half unconsciously hoped she might never cross my path. But," and again he sighed, "that is past. A letter received this morning from Louisiana, brings news of the death of her guardian—that is, you understand, the man who was left guardian to her mother and the property; which, by the way, is very large."