We reached the town, and the inn where my uncle was lying. On the road we had arranged where he would be waiting me to hear what came next. He went to see the horses put up, and I ran to find Martha. She met me on the stair, and went straight to my uncle to tell him I was come, returned almost immediately, and led me to his room. I was shocked to see how pale and ill he looked. I feared, and was right in fearing, that anxiety about myself had not a little to do with his condition. His face brightened when he saw me, but his eyes gazed into mine with a searching inquiry. His face brightened yet more when he found his eager look answered by the smile which my perfect satisfaction inspired. I knelt by the bedside, afraid to touch him lest I should hurt his arm. Slowly he laid his left hand on my head, and I knew he blessed me silently. For a minute or two he lay still. “Now tell me all about it,” he said at length, turning his patient blue eyes on mine. I began at once, and if I did not tell him all, I let it be plain there was more of the sort behind, concerning which he might question me. When I had ended, “Is that everything?” he asked, with a smile so like all he had ever been to me, that my whole heart seemed to go out to meet it. “Yes, uncle,” I answered; “I think I may say so--except that I have not dwelt upon my feelings. Love, they say, is shy; and I fancy you will pardon me that portion.” “Willingly, my child. More is quite unnecessary.” “Then you know all about it, uncle?” I ventured. “I was afraid you might not understand me. Could any one, do you think, that had not had the same experience?” He made me no answer. I looked up. He was ghastly white; his head had fallen back against the bed. I started up, hardly smothering a shriek. “What is it, uncle?” I gasped. “Shall I fetch Martha?” “No, my child,” he answered. “I shall be better in a moment. I am subject to little attacks of the heart, but they do not mean much. Give me some of that medicine on the table.” In a few minutes his colour began to return, and the smile which was forced at first, gradually brightened until it was genuine. “I will tell you the whole story one day,” he said, “--whether in this world, I am doubtful. But _when_ is nothing, or _where_, with eternity before us.” “Yes, uncle,” I answered vaguely, as I knelt again by the bedside. “A person,” he said, after a while, slowly, and with hesitating effort, “may look and feel a much better person at one time than at another. Upon occasion, he is so happy, or perhaps so well pleased with himself, that the good in him comes all to the surface.” “Would he be the better or the worse man if it did not, uncle?” I asked.