“Oh, yes. There’s no harm in him; but he’s so rustic. Poor grandpa tried to polish him by sending him to expensive schools, but it was no use. He took no interest in books, and wouldn’t go to college”—Uncle Obed would have opened his eyes if he had heard this—“and so grandpa bought him a farm, and set him up in business as a farmer. He was rather shiftless, and preferred the company of his farm laborers to going into the fashionable society the rest of the family moved in; and so all his life he has been nothing but a rough, unrefined farmer.” “What a pity, mum.” “Yes, it is a pity, but I suppose it was in him. Of course, it is very mortifying to me to have him come here—so different as he is from the rest of us. I am sure you can understand that, Nancy.” “Oh, yes, mum.” “He won’t feel at home among us, and I think I shall ask Colonel Ross to pay his fare back to Illinois, and give him a pension, if he really needs it. I dare say he has lost his farm, and is destitute, for he never knew how to take care of money.” “That would be very kind of you and the colonel, mum,” said Nancy, who didn’t believe half her mistress was saying, but thought it might be for her interest to pretend she did. “By the way, Nancy, I think I shall not need any more the mantilla you like so well. You can have it, if you like.” “Oh, thank you, mum,” exclaimed Nancy, in surprise. For she had never before received a present from her mistress, who was well known to be mean and penurious. The mantilla was a handsome one, and she thanked Mrs. Ross effusively. “There, I’ve managed her,” thought Mrs. Ross, “though at the expense of the valuable mantilla. I grudge it to her, but it is best to guard her against any of Uncle Obed’s stories, at any cost. I must get rid of him as soon as I can.” Colonel Ross wished his wife to postpone speaking for a week, but this she was unwilling to promise. She agreed to let her uncle stay a week, but insisted on giving him notice to quit sooner. On the morning of the third day she found her opportunity. Breakfast was over, and she left alone with the old man. “Mr. Wilkins,” she said, “I want to have a talk with you.” “Certainly, Lucindy, you can talk just as much as you please. But what makes you call me Mr. Wilkins? When you were a little girl, and came over with a message from your mother, it was always Uncle Obed.” “It is so long since I have seen you that I hardly feel like speaking so familiarly,” said Mrs. Ross. “You’ll feel better acquainted after a while, Lucindy.” “That shows he expects to stay a long time,” thought Mrs. Ross. “Don’t you think you made a mistake in leaving Illinois?” asked Mrs. Ross, point-blank. “Well, perhaps I did,” admitted Uncle Obed. “Of course you did. You are too old to come to a new place where you don’t know anybody. Now, out there you knew——” “Pretty nigh everybody.” “Exactly.” “But out there I hadn’t any relations left. After my poor Mary died I felt lonesome.”