Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading or of writing, he was sure to share it with her. It was in this way: If he happened to be engaged with a book, he would read choice selections from his author, and then draw her thoughts forth in praise or censure of the subject, or its treatment. If he were engaged with his pen, he would read to her what he had written, and invite her to suggest any alteration or improvement that might occur to her mind. And he was often amused and sometimes startled by the brightness and originality of her thoughts and criticisms. Sometimes he would pause in his employment and sit and silently watch her at her pretty work of silk embroidery. At such times, she worked more diligently than at others, keeping her eyes fixed upon her needle, and never daring to raise them to his face. If you had asked her—why was this? she could not have told you. She did not know herself. She only knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to meet Marcel’s eyes made her own eyes sink to the floor, and her cheeks to burn with confusion, indignation and misery. She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which she could neither comprehend nor conquer. “Why,” she asked of her heart in vain—“why should I feel so wounded, insulted and offended at the steady gaze of dee-ar Marcel, who loves me so truly, and whom I love and honor more than any other one in the whole world?” She could not answer her own question. She only felt that she hated herself for entertaining such feelings, and sometimes even hated her dee-ar Marcel for inspiring them. From some strange intuition she had ceased to call him “Marcel, dee-ar,” with tender slowness drawing out the word into two syllables, and dwelling with pathetic fondness on the first. She called him “uncle, dear,” with respectful brevity, and nothing more. On one occasion, while she was sitting at his feet in the library, engaged with her flower embroidery in colored silks, and not daring to raise her eyes, because her burning cheeks and shrinking heart assured her that he had ceased reading and was gazing steadily upon her, he said, with a touching sadness: “I fear that you are often dull in this lonely house, dear child.” “Oh, no, uncle, never dull,” she answered, without raising her eyes. “And never weary of a tiresome bookworm like me?” “Never, uncle, dear,” she answered, kindly, touched by the pathos of his tone, but half afraid of the pity that she felt for him, lest it should lead her into some vague, ill-understood wrong or woe. “Gloria,” he said, in a strangely earnest tone. “Well, uncle?” she breathed, in fear of—she knew not what. “Look at me, my darling.” She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met his glance she dropped them immediately. “Gloria!” “What is it, uncle, dear?” “I wish you would not call me ‘uncle.’ I am not your uncle, child. Do you not know it?”