A day or two afterwards I surprised my mother and uncle Bryan in the midst of a conversation which I supposed had reference to myself. My mother was in a very earnest mood, but uncle Bryan, except that he listened attentively to what she was saying, seemed in no way stirred. In all my life's experiences I never met or heard of a man who was more thoroughly attentive to every little detail that passed around him than was uncle Bryan; but although he gave his whole mind to the smallest matter for the time being, he evinced no indication of it, and persons who did not understand his character might reasonably have supposed him to be utterly indifferent to what was going on. 'You will promise me, Bryan,' my mother said. 'I will promise nothing, Emma,' he replied; 'I made a promise once in my life, and I received a promise in return. I know what came of it.' He smiled bitterly, and added, his words seeming to me to be prompted more by inner consciousness than by the signs of distress in my mother's face, 'But you can make your mind easy. It is not in my nature to force my views upon any one. Force! as if it were any matter of mine! What comes to him must come as it has come to me--through the light of experience.' 'Do you not believe, Bryan----' He interrupted her, almost vehemently. 'I believe in nothing! If that does not content you, I cannot help it.' 'If I could assist you, Bryan--if I could in any way relieve you----' 'You cannot. I am fixed. Life for me is tasteless.' Something of desolation was in his tone as he said this, but its plaintiveness was not designed by the speaker. Rather did he intend to express defiance, and a renunciation of sympathy. 'But, Bryan,' said my mother, with a tender movement towards him---- 'I must stop you,' he said, 'for fear you should say something which would compel an explanation from me. Let matters rest I am but one among hundreds of millions of crawlers. Once I saw other than visible signs--or fancied that I saw them, fool that I was! The time has gone, never to return; the power of comprehension has gone, never to return. You must take me as you find me. There is very little in the world that I like or dislike; but I can heartily despise one thing: insincerity. Have you anything more to say?' 'No, Bryan;' and I could see that my mother was both pained and relieved. 'I have; two or three words. A question first. You can be satisfied to remain here?' 'Yes, Bryan, if it satisfies you. I can do no better.' A gleam came into his eyes. 'That is sincere,' he said, with a pleasanter smile than the last. 'Very well, then; it does satisfy me. What I want to say now is, that there must be no break. You must not remain, and let me get accustomed to you, and then leave me for a woman's reason.' 'I will not, Bryan.' With that, the conversation ended. In the night, when my mother and I were alone in our bedroom, I said, 'Do you think uncle Bryan is a good man now, mother?'