"I think you are quite right, Uncle Herrick. Good night!" But at
the door she could not resist a parting shot:
"You might have been my father, and then perhaps she wouldn't have
died. I think it was very wicked of you."
After she was gone Abner sat gazing into the fire, and his pipe went
out. Eventually the beginnings of a smile stole to the corners of
his mouth, but before it could spread any farther he dismissed it
with a sigh.
Abner, for the next day or two, feared a renewal of the
conversation, but Ann appeared to have forgotten it; and as time
went by it faded from Abner's own memory. Until one evening quite a
while later.
The morning had brought him his English mail. It had been arriving
with some regularity, and Ann had noticed that Abner always opened
it before his other correspondence. One letter he read through
twice, and Ann, who was pretending to be reading the newspaper, felt
that he was looking at her.
"I have been thinking, my dear," said Abner, "that it must be rather
lonely for you here, all by yourself."
"It would be," answered Ann, "if I were here all by myself."
"I mean," said Abner, "without any other young person to talk to
and--and to play with."
"You forget," said Ann, "that I'm nearly thirteen."
"God bless my soul," said Abner.
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