But while perplexing himself with the question how best to approach her on the subject, he found among his brother's papers, a sealed letter addressed to her.
Calling Evelyn, he put it into her hand, bidding her carry it to her mother.
Half an hour later the little girl was again at his side, asking in tearful tones, "Uncle Lester, must mamma and I be separated?"
He was in the library, seated before a table, and seemed very busy over a pile of papers laid thereon; but pushing back his chair, he threw his arm round her waist and drew her to his knee.
"No, my dear child, not necessarily," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek; "your mother will be made welcome at Fairview if she sees fit to go with us."
"But she wants to stay here and keep me with her; and it's my home, you know, the dear home where everything reminds me of—papa, Will you let me stay?"
"Do you really wish it, Evelyn? do you not desire to carry out the dying wishes of the father you loved so dearly?"
"Yes, uncle," she said, the tears stealing down her cheeks, "but—perhaps he wouldn't care now, and mamma is so sorely distressed at the thought of separation; and—and it hurts me too; for she is my mother, and I have no father now—or brother, or sister."
"You must let me be a father to you, my poor, dear child," he said in moved tones, and drawing her closer; "I will do my utmost to fill his place to you, and I hope you will come to me always with your troubles and perplexities, feeling the same assurance of finding sympathy and help that you did in carrying them to him."
"Oh, thank you!" she responded. "I think you are a dear, kind uncle, and very much like papa; you remind me of him very often in your looks, and words and ways."