“Oh, we shall make a man of him, Meg! not but what, as I was saying, they’re always disappointments more or less. Your poor aunt would never let me say that, when she was breaking her poor heart for our first boy that we lost. I used to say he might have grown up to rend our hearts--but she would never hear me, never let me speak. It broke her heart, that baby’s going, Meg.” This had happened a quarter of a century before, but the old gentleman spoke as if it had been yesterday. “You may think she did not show it, and looked as if she had forgotten; but she never forgot. I saw it in her eyes when she saw Gerald Piercey first. She gave me a look as if to say, this might be him coming home, a distinguished man. For he was a delightful child--he might have grown to be anything, that boy!” “Dear Uncle Giles! You must try to look to the future--to think that there may be perhaps other children to love.” Margaret laid her hand tenderly upon the old man’s shoulder, which was heaving with those harmless sobs--which meant so little, and yet were so pitiful to the beholder. “I wanted to speak to you--about Osy, Uncle Giles.” “Yes, yes,” said the old man, cheering up. “Did you hear that he gave my poor Gervase a wedding present? that little chap! and the only one--the only one! I’ll never forget that, Meg, if I should live to be a hundred. And, please God, we’ll pay it back to him, and make a man of him, Meg.” “It was precisely of that, Uncle, I wanted to speak.” But how was she to speak? What was she to say to this old man so full of affection and of generous purpose? Margaret went on patting the old gentleman on the shoulder unconsciously, soothing him as if he had been a child. “Dear Uncle Giles, you know that now Gervase is married, they--he will want to live, perhaps, rather a different way.” “What different way?” said Sir Giles, aroused and holding up his head. “I mean, they are young people, you know, and will want to, perhaps--see more company, have visitors, enjoy their life.” Sir Giles gave her an anxious, deprecating look. “Do you think then, Meg, that--that she will do? that she will know how to manage? that she will be able to keep Gervase up to the mark?” “I think,” said Margaret, pausing to find the best words, “I think--that she is really clever, and very, very quick, and will adapt herself and learn, and--yes--I believe she will keep him up to the mark.” “God bless you for saying so, my dear! that is what I began to hope. We could not have expected him to make a great match, Meg.” “No, Uncle.” “His poor mother, you know, always had hopes. She thought some nice girl might have taken a fancy to him. But it was not to be expected, Meg.” “No, Uncle. I don’t think it was to be expected.” “In that case,” said Sir Giles--he was so much aroused and interested that there was a certain clearness in his thoughts--“in that case, it is perhaps the best thing that could have happened after all.”