My uncle had given me the use of a drawer in that same cabinet in which were the precious stones; and there, partly, I think, from the pride of sharing the cabinet with my uncle, I had long kept everything I counted precious: I should have kept Zoe there if she had not been alive and too big! CHAPTER XXV. A VERY STRANGE THING. The moment I opened the door of the study, I saw my uncle--in his think-chair, his head against the back of it, his face turned to the ceiling. I ran to his side and dropped on my knees, thinking he was dead. He opened his eyes and looked at me, but with such a wan, woe-begone countenance, that I burst into a passion of tears. “What is it, uncle dear?” I gasped and sobbed. “Nothing very new, little one,” he answered. “It is something terrible, uncle,” I cried, “or you would not look like that! Did those horrid men hurt you? You did give it them well! You came down on them like the angel on the Assyrians!” “I don't know what you're talking about, little one!” he returned. “What men?” “The men that came with John's mother to carry him off. If it hadn't been for my beautiful uncle, they would have done it too! How I wondered what had become of you! I was almost in despair. I thought you had left us to ourselves--and you only waiting, like God, for the right moment!” He sat up, and stared at me, bewildered. “I had forgotten all about John!” he said. “As to what you think I did, I know nothing about it. I haven't been out of this room since I saw--that spectre in the kitchen.” “John's mother, you mean, uncle?” “Ah! she's John's mother, is she? Yes, I thought as much--and it was more than my poor brain could stand! It was too terrible!--My little one, this is death to you and me!” My heart sank within me. One thought only went through my head--that, come what might, I would no more give up John, than if I were already married to him in the church. “But why--what is it, uncle?” I said, hardly able to get the words out. “I will tell you another time,” he answered, and rising, went to the door. “John is going to London,” I said, following him. “Is he?” he returned listlessly. “He wants to see his lawyer, and try to get things on a footing of some sort between his mother and him.” “That is very proper,” he replied, with his hand on the lock. “But you don't think it would be safe for him to travel to-night--do you, uncle--so soon after his illness?” I asked. “No, I cannot say I do. It would not be safe. He is welcome to stop till to-morrow.” “Will you not tell him so, uncle? He is bent on going!” “I would rather not see him! There is no occasion. It will be a great relief to me when he is able--quite able, I mean--to go home to his mother--or where it may suit him best.”