CHAPTER XIII. Susan had been at the window for nearly two hours, though it was still only eleven o'clock. She said to herself that Uncle Edward would not certainly come before the middle of the day, but still could not leave the window in case she might possibly lose the first glimpse of him on the road. When she had satisfied herself, to her great disappointment, that the homely country vehicle which she saw approaching contained him, poor Susan nearly cried with vexation. There was not even anybody in the gig with him to take charge of it. It appeared that he must only mean to remain a moment, and Susan withdrew from the window in the first shock of her disappointment, feeling that Uncle Edward had deceived her, and that there was no longer anything to be depended on in the world. At that instant Horace, who had no desire to subject himself to the inquiries of Susan, and had hitherto kept rather out of her way, entered the room abruptly. "Here is my uncle!" he exclaimed. "What! you don't care for him to-day, don't you? He's no novelty now?--that's famous, certainly! But, do you hear, Susan, I want something of you. While he's here, make him talk all you can; ask him about my mother; how they used to live when we were babies; what happened about the time she died; everything you can think of. I want to hear what he says, and of course all that's very interesting to you; you want to know." "Don't _you_ want to know, Horace?" asked Susan, half alarmed by his tone, and yet half pleased with the idea that he was becoming interested about their dead mother, and the life which was connected with her. She looked at him with dubious, uncertain looks; she did not know what to make of him. She could not comprehend any secondary or evil motive which he could have, and yet he did not seem to speak quite honestly, or in good faith. "To be sure; why else should I bid you ask?" said Horace, throwing a book down on the table and seating himself by it, as if he had been pursuing his morning studies there.