“I will speak to Colonel Ross about it, Mr. Wilkins,” she said, coldly. “You can stay to supper, and see him then.” “Don’t call me Mr. Wilkins. I’m your Uncle Obed,” said the old man. “You may be my uncle, but I am not sufficiently acquainted with you yet for that,” she answered. “You can come upstairs, if you feel tired, and lie down till supper time.” “Thank you, I will,” said Uncle Obed. The offer of Mrs. Ross was dictated not so much by kindness as by the desire to get her shabby uncle well out of the way, and have a chance for a private conference with her husband, whom she expected every minute. If the unannounced visit of Uncle Obed may be thought to need an excuse, it can easily be found. For years, when Mrs. Ross was a girl, she and her mother were mainly supported by the now despised uncle, without whom they might have become dependent upon charity. It was not a time that Mrs. Ross, in her present luxury, liked to think about, and for years she had not communicated with the uncle to whom she owed so much. Full of charity himself, he was unconscious of her lack of gratitude, and supposed that her failure to write was owing to lack of time. He had come in good faith, when bereft of his daughter, to renew acquaintance with his niece, never dreaming how unwelcome he would be. Philip’s rudeness impressed him unpleasantly, but, then, the boy had never seen him before, and that was some excuse. CHAPTER VII — AN UNWELCOME GUEST “I don’t believe that old tramp’s my great-uncle,” said Philip Ross to himself, but he felt uneasy, nevertheless. It hurt his pride to think that he should have such a shabby relation, and he resolved to ascertain by inquiry from his mother whether there were any grounds for the old man’s claim. He came into the house just after Uncle Obed had been shown upstairs by the servant, not to the spare room, but to a small, inconvenient bedroom on the third floor, next to the one occupied by the two servants. “Mother,” asked Philip, “is it really true?” “Is what really true?” “That that shabby old man is any relation of ours?” “I don’t know with certainty,” answered his mother. “He says he is, but I shouldn’t have known him.” “Did you have any uncle in Illinois?” “Yes, I believe so,” Mrs. Ross admitted, reluctantly. “You always said you were of a high family,” said Philip, reproachfully. Mrs. Ross blushed, for she did not like to admit that her pretensions to both were baseless. She was not willing to admit it now, even to Philip. “It is true,” she replied, in some embarrassment; “but there’s always a black sheep in every flock.” Poor Obed! To be called a black sheep—a hard-working, steady-going man as he had been all his life. “But my mother’s brother, Obed, strange to say, was always rustic and uncouth, and so he was sent out to Illinois to be a farmer. We thought that the best place for him—that he would live and die there; but now, in the most vexatious manner in the world, he turns up here.”