My uncle gave a wink at Mrs. Wilcox, not with any overture to familiarity—for he was very shy of widows—but to intimate to her that she should talk a little nonsense, after his example, as a rescue from hysterics. For poor Kitty had been passing through much outrage all the morning; and now to be met with this shock of strange news (bad to her head, but perhaps good for her heart) after such a long time of dejection was enough to throw the finest daughter of Divine Science into some confusion as to all her organisms. But she fetched herself back from the precipice of sobs, with a deep draught of air, and spoke as she did not feel. “If he is being treated like—like beef, I think I ought to have a voice in the matter. Will you let me come down, and do it for him—or see that it is done properly? My father has taught me so many things—” “My dear,” said my uncle, being truly thankful to her, for not even pulling out her handkerchief, “you are the sweetest young lady I have ever met. No, you shall not come down and nurse our Kit; not only because it is not the place for you, but also that it might be very bad for him. His mind must not come back with a jerk, however pleasant the jerk may be. He must come round slowly, and he has begun to do it, under Tabby Tapscott’s scrubbing-brush. But you shall come and see him, in a week, my dear, if you think you can hold out so long here. And now tell me, what is going on, to urge your gentle nature so.” The young lady looked at Mrs. Wilcox, as if she could hardly tell what to do. She was very unwilling to refuse my uncle anything he might ask her; and yet she could not bring herself to speak of such matters to him. “I will tell you all about it, when she is gone,” said the lady of the shop, as if hurried for time; “but I know by her look that she is getting in a fright. What will they do, if they catch you out, dearie?” “I defy them. I defy them. They may do what they like. Now I know that Kit stands fast to me, after all he has suffered for my sake, am I likely to show the white feather? Uncle Corny, I will come away with you, and let them do their worst, if you will take me.” She pulled her hat down on her forehead, and drew her crinoline into small compass, as if she were ready to mount our spring-cart; and her manner had such an effect on my uncle—for very pretty girls do even more by attitude, than by words or looks—that he saw himself driving her away, and looking back with a whistle of defiance at the world. Moreover she had called him “Uncle Corny,” which put him on his mettle to deserve it; and though there have been few men born as yet, with more gift of decision in their nature, he looked at her lovingly, and hesitated.