Uncle Nathan, notwithstanding the cold and the storm, occupied his great chair in the porch. I think the old man must have grown a trifle stouter since the reader saw him, and his face had a still more benevolent look; something of serene goodness, mellowing in the sunshine of his genial nature, was perceptible there, as the tints of a golden pippin, ripened in the autumn sun. But you could see nothing of this, as the old man sat in his easy-chair that night. Everything was dark around him. Black clouds hung overhead, broken now and then with gleams of pale blue lightning. Once or twice these flashes were bright enough to reveal his features, which were strangely troubled and thoughtful. Since nightfall, he had been sitting there almost in silence, watching the storm gather overhead, and the black shadows as they crowded down from the hills and choked up the garden. He listened to the wind as it rose and swelled down the valley, rushing through the orchard boughs, and tossing them up and down in the darkness. The old man was not reposing; thoughtful and aroused he took a clear retrospection of those phases of life that had left scars even on his placid heart. A shadow, for it seemed nothing more, lingered by his side. It moved now and then, and amid the hushes of the wind you might have known that two persons breathed close together in the old porch. At length what seemed the shadow spoke. "Shall we go in, uncle Nathan? The wind is getting high, here. How the rain beats on the porch--you will catch cold." "No, I'd rather sit out here yet awhile. But go in yourself, Mary; it is getting rather chilly for you." "No," answered Mary, in her old gentle way, "I'd rather sit with you, uncle Nat." "I'm bad company," said the old man, "somehow I can't feel like talking to-night." "Nor I," said Mary Fuller, leaning her cheek against the arm-chair, "something is the matter with us both. I wonder what it is!" "My heart is full," said uncle Nathan, mournfully. Mary crept close to him. "Tell me, uncle Nat, is it about Mr. Ritner's note that you feel so bad?" "That may have set me to thinking of--of other things. I seem to remember everything that ever happened to-night, I never saw clouds exactly like them before, or heard the wind howl so, but once." "When was that, uncle Nathan?" inquired his companion, in a whisper. "The night our sister Anna died," answered the old man in the same hushed tone. "Uncle Nathan, do tell me about her, I want to hear it so much, it seems as if I must ask you now, though I never dared before." Uncle Nathan remained silent a minute or two, then turning in his chair, he said, in a low, husky voice, "See what they are doing in there. Hannah must not hear what we are talking about." Mary opened the kitchen-door and looked through.