“You see it isn’t as if he were one of us, Cousin Lil,” she said, her soft cheeks flushed, her eyes large with unshed tears: “he’s a Northerner, you know, a New Englander. He’s interested in the interurban lines they’re building and projecting here in Tennessee, and he really lives in the city—I mean his headquarters are there. And when he comes down here to see us, why, it isn’t real Southern hospitality not to ask him to a single meal. But I daren’t. And once Uncle Jason came right into the parlor and banged the fire-irons around and glared and kept looking at his watch. And it was only half-past nine, Cousin Lil. That was just after Caro went back; and he really hasn’t been here since. I do hate for _Northern_ people to think——” a tear slid down one cheek; but the slight shrinking of her pretty hand showed me she could not bear to be petted just now; she did not want sympathy, but help. She swallowed hard and went on. “And you know next morning at breakfast I spoke to him—not to criticise, you know, nor anger him, of course. I told him not to be afraid that I would forget his wishes; that I told every one it kept him awake to have anyone stirring after ten o’clock at night, and that Mother and I always closed the house then; and I said it was only half-past nine last night.” “What did he say?” “Why, he just stormed, like he always does, you know. He said he wanted to go to bed early. And he got up without eating his breakfast, and slammed the door and went out. I had to run clear to the barn after him and beg and beg, before he would come back.” “What on earth did you want him back for?” I inquired. “Why, to eat his breakfast. He hadn’t had his coffee, and he’d have had a headache without it.” “Milly Wood!” I gasped. “Mother always coaxes him back,” said Milly, with gentle finality; “at least, she always tries. Sometimes he won’t come, and then she takes it to him herself. You know he has terrible headaches sometimes.” “But, dear, if you would only face him down just once.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” said Milly, shrinking. “And Mother would never get over it. You don’t know how she feels about Uncle Jason. She says he’s never had the best of life, because he never has known the love that can give its all. She’s sorry for him, and she wants us to make up to him for what he has missed.” “Well, you’ll never do it,” I said. “Nobody but Jason Blue can ever make good that loss to him.” “Sometimes I think Mother ought to require some things of him,” she said; “but she won’t; and I know I’ll never make it harder for her by doing what she doesn’t want. But I wish he didn’t live at home.” She kissed me, smiling rather forlornly, and went away, while I lay here wondering about Mr. Lincoln, whom I have never seen. But David and Caro liked him, which is sufficient passport to my favor. * * * * *