I was not quite alone. That would have been too terrible. My maternal uncle stood beside me, a kindly man, with not much depth of feeling or of purse. He had a large and expensive family, altogether out of proportion to his income, and knowing something of my present circumstances, had come to the funeral of his brother-in-law in fear and trembling—fear that the sight of my loneliness would be too much for his kindly nature to endure, and that he should be obliged to offer me a home in his already over-peopled dwelling; and trembling as to the reception I should meet with from his wife were I to accompany him thither. He did offer to take me back with him, and was, I am sure, immensely relieved when, with grateful thanks, I firmly declined the invitation. Perhaps it may be thought I had little to thank him for, but indeed I had, because I knew his will to serve me exceeded his ability. My uncle asked me a number of questions, which I was quite prepared to answer, and at every reply, his brow cleared. I could see that he had come to the funeral in doubt whether the expenses of it might not have to be met by himself. But I reassured him on this and every other point relating to money matters. There was absolutely nothing to be paid by any outsider. Then my uncle turned to me. "About yourself, Lois. What are you going to do?" I replied, as cheerfully as possible, "Pack up what belongs to me. This will soon be done." He thought I was a strange girl, and he said, "You bear up wonderfully, Lois. It is hardly natural to see a girl like you coming from your father's funeral with dry eyes." It was not natural. No one could be more sensible of this than myself, and when he said those words, looking straight in my face, I had hard work to steady my quivering lips and keep the tears from overflowing. "Uncle James," I said, "it is the thought of my darling father that makes me both want to weep and keeps me from weeping. When I think of what I have lost, it is hard work indeed. He was so good." I paused, and he looked pityingly down upon me, for he understood by my face and tone something of the struggle that was going on within, and of which before, he hardly guessed the existence. "But," I continued, "think what it would have been for my father, ruined in means, broken in health, bereft of the true helpmeet of thirty years, and of his two eldest children, to begin a new struggle with the world. I turn my back upon the old, happy past, the very memory of which would break me down just now, and I say to myself, 'God knew best. He has reunited the two who loved each other so well on earth. He has given them back the children over whose graves they shed such bitter tears. What if I am left solitary?' I keep saying to myself, 'It is best so,' and this is why I will not weep, Uncle James."