Never but once had they asked for aid, and that to help them rear the little ’Lena. Influenced by his wife, John replied sneeringly, scouting the idea of Helena’s marriage, denouncing her as his sister, and saying of her child, that the poor-house stood ready for such as she! This letter ’Lena had accidentally found among her grandfather’s papers, and though its contents gave her no definite impression concerning her mother, it inspired her with a dislike for her uncle, whose coming she greatly dreaded, for it was confidently expected that she, together with her grandmother, would return with him to Kentucky. “You’ll be better off there than here,” said her grandfather one day, when speaking of the subject. “Your Uncle John is rich, and you’ll grow up a fine lady.” “I don’t want to be a lady—I won’t be a lady,” said ’Lena passionately. “I don’t like Uncle John. He called my mother a bad woman and me a little brat! I hate him!” and the beautiful brown eyes glittering with tears flashed forth their anger quite as eloquently as language could express it. The next moment ’Lena was bending over her grandfather, asking to be forgiven for the hasty words which she knew had caused him pain. “I’ll try to like him,” said she, as the palsied hand stroked her disordered curls in token of forgiveness, “I’ll try to like him,” adding mentally, “but I do hope he won’t come.” It would seem that ’Lena’s wish was to be granted, for weeks glided by and there came no tidings of the absent one. Daily Mr. Nichols grew weaker, and when there was no longer hope of life, his heart yearned more and more to once more behold his son; to hear again, ere he died, the blessed name of father. “’Lena,” said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed worse, “’Lena, it’s time for the stage, and do you run down to the ‘turn’ and see if your uncle’s come; something tells me he’ll be here to-night.” ’Lena obeyed, and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet, she was soon at the “turn,” a point in the road from which the village hotel was plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived, and ’Lena saw that one of the passengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed to be giving directions concerning his baggage. “That’s Uncle John, I most know,” thought she, and seating herself on a rock beneath some white birches, so common in New England, she awaited his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the stranger was John Livingstone, returned after many years, but so changed that the jolly landlord, who had known him when a boy, and with whom he had cracked many a joke, now hardly dared to address him, he seemed so cold and haughty. “I will leave my trunk here for a few days,” said John, “and perhaps I shall wish for a room. Got any decent accommodations?”