He nodded. “Natural enough you should be,” he said. “Homesickness is a mean disease. I’ve been homesick myself for the past fortnight or so.” She could not, at the moment, understand what he meant. “Why, Captain Townsend!” she protested. He interrupted. “Might as well call me ‘Uncle Foster,’ hadn’t you?” he suggested. “Sounds a little less like town meeting.” Again she blushed. “I--I forgot again,” she confessed. Then, catching the twinkle in his eye, she laughed. “But, Uncle Foster--” “That’s better. What?” “I don’t see why you should be homesick. This _is_ your home.” “It’s my house. It was my home, but-- Oh, well! we’ll see if we can’t make it ‘home’ again, you and I between us. Homesickness is mean, though. I remember the first voyage I ever made. Little thirteen-year-old shaver I was, and--” He went on to tell of that voyage. It was a long one and the story was long, but he told it well. Supper was ended before he finished. They returned to the library. Instead of sitting in the easy-chair he remained standing. “Er--Esther,” he said. “Yes, sir.... Yes, Uncle Foster?” He rubbed his beard. “I was just going to say,” he went on, awkwardly, “that--er--humph! well, the piano is in the other room--in the parlor. Perhaps you’d like to play on it. I guess it is in tune; the tuner comes every two or three months or so; I hope he earns his money.” She did not feel like playing. “Why, if you want me to--” she hesitated. “I shouldn’t mind. It would be interesting to see how the thing sounds. About all Mother or I ever did was look at it. Of course, if _you_ don’t want to--” “Yes. Yes, I will. But I can’t play very well.” “And I shouldn’t know if you did, if that’s any comfort to you. Ellen has lit up the parlor, I guess; I told her to.” The parlor--even the wife of the great Foster Townsend had never dared refer to it as a “drawing-room” within the limits of Harniss township--was by far the most majestic apartment in the mansion. And, of course, the least livable. The huge rosewood square piano was of corresponding majesty. Esther seated herself upon the brocaded cushion of the music stool and her uncle, after trying one of the bolt-upright chairs, shifted to the equally bolt-upright sofa--in the bill it had been a “divan”--and sat uncomfortably upon that. “What shall I play?” she asked. There were some sheets of music upon the rack, but they were unfamiliar and looked uninviting. Townsend grunted. “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “Anything you want to. If you played ‘Old Hundred,’ and told me it was ‘The Jerusalem Hornpipe’ I couldn’t contradict you.”