I then told him in return what my life had hitherto been; how I knew nothing of father or mother; how my uncle had been everything to me; how he had taught me all I knew, had helped me to love what was good and hate what was evil, had enabled me to value good books, and turn away from foolish ones. In short, I made him feel that all his mother had not been to him, my uncle had been to me; and that it would take a long time to make me as much indebted to a husband as already I was to my uncle. Then I put the question: “What would you think of me if I had a secret from an uncle like that?” “If I had an uncle like that,” he answered, “I would sooner cut my throat than keep anything from him!” “I have not told him,” I said, “what happened to-day--or yesterday.” “But you will tell him?” “The first moment I can. But I hope you understand it is hard to do. My love for my uncle makes it hard. It has the look of turning away from him to love another!” With that I burst out crying. I could not help it. He let me cry, and did not interfere. I was grateful for that. When at length I raised my head, he spoke. “It has that look,” he said; “but I trust it is only a look. Anyhow, he knows that such things must be; and the more of a good man and a gentleman he is, the less will he be pained that we should love one another!” “I am sure of that,” I replied. “I am only afraid that he may never have been in love himself, and does not know how it feels, and may think I have forsaken him for you.” “Are you with him _always?_” “No; I am sometimes a good deal alone. I can be alone as much as I like; he always gives me perfect liberty. But I never before wanted to be alone when I could be with him.” “But he _could_ live without you?” “Yes, indeed!” I cried. “He would be a poor creature that could not live without another!” He said nothing, and I added, “He often goes out alone--sometimes in the darkest nights.” “Then be sure he knows what love is.--But, if you would rather, I will tell him.” “I could not have any one, even you, tell my uncle about me.” “You are right. When will you tell him?” “I cannot be sure. I would go to him to-morrow, but I am afraid they will not let me until he has got a little over this accident,” I answered--and told him what had happened. “It is dreadful to think how he must have suffered,” I said, “and how much more I should have thought about it but for you! It tears my heart. Why wasn't it made bigger?” “Perhaps that is just what is now being done with it!” he answered. “I hope it may be!” I returned. “--But it is time I went in.” “Shall I not see you again to-morrow evening?” he asked. “No,” I answered. “I must not see you again till I have told my uncle everything.” “You do not mean for weeks and weeks--till he is well enough to come home? How _am_ I to live till then!” “As I shall have to live. But I hope it will be but for a few days at most. Only, then, it will depend on what my uncle thinks of the thing.”