"Not he, dear!" said Mr. Ringgan. "Your father had ten times the man in him that ever your uncle was."
"Why, what kind of a man is uncle Rossitur, grandpa?"
"Ho dear! I can't tell. I ha'n't seen much of him. I wouldn't judge a man without knowing more of him than I do of Mr. Rossitur. He seemed an amiable kind of man. But no one would ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow, when your father was by."
The diversion took effect on Fleda herself now. She looked up pleased.
"You remember your father, Fleda."
"Yes, grandpa, but not very well always. I remember a great many things about him, but I can't remember exactly how he looked, except once or twice."
"Ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. But he was a noble-looking man in form and face too and his looks were the worst part of him. He seemed made of different stuff from all the people around," said Mr. Ringgan, sighing, "and they felt it too, I used to notice, without knowing it. When his cousins were 'Sam,' and 'Johnny,' and 'Bill,' he was always, that is after he grew up, 'Mr. Walter.' I believe they were a little afeard of him. And with all his bravery and fire he could be as gentle as a woman."
"I know that," said Fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "What made him be a soldier, grandpa? "
"Oh, I don't know, dear! he was too good to make a farmer of or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world he couldn't rest without trying to be something more than other folks. I don't know whether people are any happier for it."
"Did he go to West Point, grandpa?"