“Oh, your old Uncle reads a little of everything,” he returned with a reassuring commonplaceness of manner. He was thunderstruck at his outburst. Never had he had occasion to talk in that vein. He remembered how blunt he had been with the older Rose twenty years before--how he had jumped to the point at the start and landed safely; clinched his wooing, as he had since realized, by calling her his Rose of Sharon, and now he was saying the same thing over again, but, oh, how differently. If only he were thirty-four today, and unmarried! “You always were the most wonderful person,” beamed Rose, completely at her ease once more, “I used to simply adore you, and I'm beginning to adore you again.” “That's because you don't know what a glum old grouch I really am.” “You--a grouch? Oh, Uncle Martin!” Her merry, infectious laugh left no doubt of how ridiculous such a notion seemed. “Oh, yes; I am.” “Nonsense. You'll have to prove it to me.” “Ask your aunt or Bill; they'll tell you.” The acrimony in his tone did not escape her. “Then they'll have to prove it to me,” she corrected, her gaiety now a trifle forced. Aunt Rose never had appreciated him, was her quick thought. Even as a child she had sensed that. “How are they?” she added quickly. “Bill must be a great boy by this time.” “Only a few inches shorter than I am,” Martin answered indifferently. “He's one of the kind who get their growth early--by the time he's fifteen he'll be six feet.” “I'm crazy to see them.” “Well, there's your aunt now,” he resumed drily as they drew up before the little house that contrasted so conspicuously with the fine brick silos and imposing barns. Gleaming with windows, they loomed out of the twilight, reminding one, in their slate-colored paint, of magnificent battleships.