“Proud to be my nephew,” he repeated. “He’s a fine feller, he is, and Hetty’s done well for herself, if it is pretty hard on us to be left.” He went back to the dining-room, where Nancy was clearing the dishes away, and opening the door he called in vehemently:
“Blamed if I care if he takes her to the the-a-tre every night in the week!”
Nancy turned a startled face to him, forgetful of the fact that tears were rolling down her cheeks.
The unexpected sight of her grief touched her uncle keenly; he had never before seen her cry, and going over to her and laying his hand on her shoulder, he said affectionately, “I’m a reg’lar old brute, Nan. You must excuse me, and remember it’s losin’ Hetty that’s sorter upset me. I orter be better ‘n usual to you, instead of meaner, for I can see you are grievin’ too.”
“I have more cause to be grievin’ even than you, Uncle Peter,” Nancy said sadly, “for there’s an impassable gulf between Hetty and me now.” Uncle Peter’s hand slipped from her shoulder.
“Gulfs be damned,” he said impatiently.