That evening, after dinner, Hephzy joined me in the drawing-room. It was a beautiful summer evening, but every shade was drawn and every shutter tightly closed. We had, on our second evening in the rectory, suggested leaving them open, but the housemaid had shown such shocked surprise and disapproval that we had not pressed the point. By this time we had learned that “privacy” was another sacred and inviolable English custom. The rectory sat in its own ground, surrounded by high hedges; no one, without extraordinary pains, could spy upon its inmates, but, nevertheless, the privacy of those inmates must be guaranteed. So the shutters were closed and the shades drawn. “Well?” said I to Hephzy. “Well,” said Hephzy, “it's better than I was afraid it was goin' to be. I explained that you told the folks at Bancroft's she was your niece because 'twas the handiest thing to tell 'em, and you HAD to tell 'em somethin'. And down here in Mayberry the same way. She understood, I guess; at any rate she didn't make any great objection. I thought at the last that she was laughin', but I guess she wasn't. Only what she said sounded funny.” “What did she say?” “Why, she wanted to know if she should call you 'Uncle Hosea.' She supposed it should be that--'Uncle Hosy' sounded a little irreverent.” I did not answer. “Uncle Hosea!” a beautiful title, truly. “She acted so different to-day, didn't she,” observed Hephzy. “It's because she's gettin' well, I suppose. She was real full of fun, wasn't she.” “Confound her--yes,” I snarled. “All the fun is on her side. Well, she should make the best of it while it lasts. When she learns the truth she may not find it so amusing.” Hephzy sighed. “Yes,” she said, slowly, “I'm afraid that's so, poor thing. When--when are you goin' to tell her?” “I don't know,” I answered. “But pretty soon, that's certain.” CHAPTER X In Which I Break All Previous Resolutions and Make a New One That afternoon tea on the lawn was the beginning of the great change in our life at the rectory. Prior to that Hephzy and I had, golfly speaking, been playing it as a twosome. Now it became a threesome, with other players added at frequent intervals. At luncheon next day our invalid, a real invalid no longer, joined us at table in the pleasant dining-room, the broad window of which opened upon the formal garden with the sundial in the center. She was in good spirits, and, as Hephzy confided to me afterward, was “gettin' a real nice appetite.” In gaining this appetite she appeared to have lost some of her dignity and chilling condescension; at all events, she treated her American relatives as if she considered them human beings. She addressed most of her conversation to Hephzy, always speaking of and to her as “Miss Cahoon.” She still addressed me as “Mr. Knowles,” and I was duly thankful; I had feared being hailed as “Uncle Hosy.”