"As long as I could, uncle, until I felt that I must run away, or go mad, or die. Then I remembered you, I had never seen you, but I remembered that you were papa's brother, and that, being of the same blood, you must be good, and kind, and true; and so I resolved to come to you." His hand trembled on her head, but he was silent for a moment; then he said, in a low voice: "Why did you not write?" A smile crossed the girl's face. "Because they would not permit us to write, excepting under their dictation." He started, and a fiery light flashed from the gentle, dreamy eyes. "No letters were allowed to leave the school unless the principals had read them. We were never out alone, or I would have posted a letter unknown to them. No, I could not write, or I would have done so, and--and--waited." "You would not have waited long, my child," he murmured. She threw back her head and kissed his hand. It was a strange gesture, more foreign than English, full of the impulsive gracefulness of the passionate South in which she had been born and bred; it moved the old man strangely, and he drew her still closer to him as he whispered-- "Go on!--go on!" "Well I made up my mind to run away," she continued. "It was a dreadful thing to do, because if I had been caught and brought back, they would have----" "Stop, stop!" he broke in with passionate dread. "Why did I not know of this? How did Harold come to send you there? Great Heaven! a young tender girl! Can Heaven permit it?" "Heaven permits strange things, uncle," said the girl, gravely. "Papa did not know, just as you did not know. It was an English school, and all was fair and pleasant outside--outside! Well the night just after I had received the money you used to send me each quarter, I bribed one of the servants to leave the door open and ran away. I knew the road to the coast and knew what day and time the boat started. I caught it and reached London. There was just enough money to pay the fare down here, and I--I--that is all, uncle." "All?" he murmured. "A young, tender child!" "And are you not angry?" she asked, looking up into his face. "You will not send me back?" "Angry! Send you back! My child, do you think if I had known, if I could have imagined that you were not well treated, that you were not happy, that I would have permitted you to remain a day, an hour longer than I could have helped? Your letters always spoke of your contentment and happiness." She smiled. "Remember, they were written with someone looking over my shoulder." Something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had uttered for many a long year, was smothered on the gentle lips. "I could not know that--I could not know that, Stella! Your father thought it best--I have his last letter. My child, do not cry----" She raised her face. "I am not crying; I never cry when I think of papa, uncle, Why should I? I loved him too well to wish him back from Heaven."