“And we always sings about the saints of God on his burfday,” said Lily, “and father cries a little.”
“No, he don’t!” said Hugh indignantly. “Father’s a man, and men don’t cry!”
“But he does,” said Lily. “I saw a weeny little tear on his cheek this morning, for to-day is Uncle Tom’s burfday, and his voice goes all shaky like, ’cause he was so fond of poor Uncle Tom, and says he was so good.”
The old gentleman sat silent, staring hard at the ground.
“Is it long since Uncle Tom went away?” he said at last.
“It is ten years,” replied Hugh. “It was the year I was born.”
“Ten years—so it is,” murmured the old gentleman—“only ten years, and it has seemed like a hundred.”
The children looked at one another surprised.
“Did you ever know Uncle Tom?” asked Hugh curiously.