It was the more easily disposed of, that its place was soon filled by another shadowy vexation. His uncle's reception was both courteous and kind; yet he could not help feeling intuitively that it was lacking in some indefinable element of cordiality, even while he repudiated the intuition as a baseless figment of his own imagination. Certainly, there was no tangible coolness, not so much as a thin film of indifference, upon which to lay a plausible finger-tip; nothing that did not slip away from every attempt at analysis, and seem to resolve itself into a sickly humor of his own. At worst, he told himself, there was only some less definite expression of consanguineous sympathy, in the pressure of his uncle's hand, and in the modulations of his voice, than he had allowed himself to look for; and this was a mere matter of mood and temperament, the absence of which formed no good ground of complaint, whatever warmth and grace might have been contributed by its presence. No doubt, it would come in good time. Meanwhile Doctor Remy, sending forth his keen glance from the shadowy end of the piazza, had recognized the new comer; and he now presented himself, hat in hand. "The first meeting of near relatives," said he, with his indescribable mixture of seriousness and sarcasm, "is a scene upon which a third person is bound to pronounce his blessing, and--turn his back! Nay, no disclaimers; he is equally bound not to listen to them. Good evening, Mr. Bergan,--allow me to remark that good influences may avail much in the matter that we were talking of. Good evening, Mr. Arling,--it gives me pleasure to leave you in such agreeable quarters; Oakstead has manifold attractions, as you are in the way to discover." And the doctor bowed, and descended the steps. Mr. Bergan turned to his nephew. "I hope you left my sister well," said he. "Quite well. I have a letter from her for you. I am ashamed that it has not been delivered before, but--" Bergan hesitated; a further explanation would take him upon delicate ground. "Never mind the sequence of the 'but,'" said his uncle, smiling, albeit a little gravely;--"I am aware that the road from Bergan Hall to Oakstead is not so smooth as could be wished. I"--there was a slight hesitation, as if a colder phrase had been sought, and not found,--"I am glad that you were able to surmount its difficulties so soon. A letter from Eleanor!" he went on, with a sudden change of subject,--"that will be a treat indeed! I take shame to myself that our correspondence has fallen into such desuetude. But what one ever did survive the lapse of forty-two years, without the reviving impulse of an occasional meeting? I hardly dare venture a question about my sister's family, lest I make some terrific blunder. I am not even sure about the present number of her children." "There are six of us left." "'Left' implies 'taken,'" said Mr. Bergan, with a sigh. "We have lost two of our number."