"Clarissa!" he exclaimed, trembling, and feeling as if he were in a dream.
The vision smiled. "Do you not know me, uncle?" it asked, in its sweet tones; "I am Carice."
"Ah!" said the Major, slowly, and as if but half awake. He took his niece's hands, and gazed earnestly in her face. "You are like your mother, child, or like what she was at your age, much more than you are like the child that used to play around my knees,—let me see,—six—eight—nine years ago. I missed her, Carice, when she stopped coming, I missed her."
"She missed you, too, uncle," replied Carice. "She was very fond of you.'
"Then why did she stop coming? asked the Major, gloomily.
"Because, uncle," answered Carice, simply, "she grew old enough to know that it is a child's duty to obey, and not to question."
The Major's brow darkened; but he looked sad, too. "I never laid it up against you, Carice," he said, with significant emphasis.
"Nor against any one, I hope," replied Carice, coaxingly. "Oh, uncle, ought not this long feud to cease?"
Major Bergan shook his head. "There is no feud between you and me, child," said he. "But, as for your father," he went on, with a kindling eye and a roughening voice, "when he—"
Carice laid her hand upon his arm. "As you were just saying," said she, gently, "he is my father. And, dear uncle, a daughter's ear is easily hurt."