To him she had always carried all her griefs, her hopes and fears (for which no one else appeared to have neither time nor interest); and she ever found him a ready listener, and came away comforted and lightened of her burden, whatever it was.
If she wanted a particular favor, it was to Uncle Richard she applied. He gratified every childish whim or wish, no matter what it was or what expense, time, or trouble it involved.
He was her confident, too; all her little school-girl secrets were whispered unreservedly in his ear, and, as she grew older, all her plans were submitted to his judgment rather than to that of either father or mother.
He always discussed them with her as with an equal, and as if they were as interesting to him as to herself, while her parents were liable to say, indulgently, yet with evident annoyance:
“Do as you like, child, but I am too busy to attend to anything of the kind.”
From the moment of his attack, Mr. Forrester had insisted upon the presence of Editha at his bedside; and there he lay and watched her, with his heart in his eyes, as if he knew he was looking his last upon the fair face and sunny-haired head that had been so dear to him for so many years.
He had been stricken with paralysis while pleading a case in the court-room, and was brought to his home never to leave it again until he was borne forth by other feet, and laid away from the sight of men forever.
His body was almost paralyzed, but, strange to say, his brain was clear, and he arranged regarding the disposal of many thing which were not mentioned in his will, and concerning the last services that were to be observed over his own body.
“My little girlie,” he said, tenderly, to Editha one day, as she sat beside him, holding one of his numb and withered hands, and longing to do something to relieve his helplessness, “you have always loved Uncle Richard a little, haven’t you?”
“A little!” she said, choking back a sob. “No one in all the world has ever been to me what you have been. You have been my confidant—my most intimate friend. I have never been able to go to papa, nor to poor mamma while she lived, and tell them my troubles as I have to you. I don’t know why it was, but papa always laughed at and teased me, and mamma was too busy to attend to me. But you always put by everything and listened to me. Uncle Richard, I believe—I ought not to say it, perhaps, but I can just whisper it to you now—I believe I love you best of any one in all the world;” and Editha laid her cheek against his in a fond way that told how very dear he was to her.