“Why,” stammered uncle, “you see I must go on ahead and get something to do, first; then I can send for you, Millie. Think what it means for us to get away to America, where are so many bright chances! God knows but I shall be able to lift up my head there, and get a new start. I can’t do anything so long as I stay here.” So, after the first shock had passed, it was arranged. For the first time in many days I saw my uncle put his arms around his wife’s shoulders, as if he were courting her again, and re-dreaming youth’s dream, as he painted with winsome colors this new adventure. When hope was shining its brightest in his eye my aunt’s caught the gleam of it, and in a much kinder voice than I was used to hearing, she said, “Do it, Stanwood! Do it, and we’ll look after the business while you get ready for us in the new world!” In another week my uncle had packed his belongings in a tin trunk, had said good-by to his old-time friends, had taken us with him to the station to talk earnestly, manfully with us until the Liverpool train came in. Then we went through the gates to the compartment, and saw him shut in by the guard. Through the open window he whispered counsel and tender words, and re-echoed his new purposes. Then there was a stir, the train began to move away from us, and my uncle was plunging off towards a new world, and, we prayed, towards a new manhood, leaving aunt and me dazed at our new loneliness. _Chapter II. Dripping Potatoes, Diplomatic Charity, and Christmas Carols_ _Chapter II. Dripping Potatoes, Diplomatic Charity, and Christmas Carols._ Contrary to his promise, Uncle did not write to us announcing his arrival. In fact, for some strange reason, no letter had arrived by the end of summer. After the leaves had gone and the trees were left stripped by the fall winds, no word had come to comfort us from America. Aunt and I had tried to keep the shop open, but we saw every day that we had not the skill to make it a success. Already, in the minds of the townspeople, we had failed. It was not long before we were selling nothing but the smoked and dried fish with which the shop was stocked. We could get no fresh fish on credit. Even the grocer would not longer trust us, and shut off supplies. We tried to make out as well as we could, but not philosophically, on dry bread, smoked fish, and tea, with monotonous regularity. Aunt Millie was the wrong kind of person to live with in reduced circumstances. She took away the taste of a red herring by her complaints and impatient tirades against the author of our misfortune. The failure of letters, too, only increased her anger. There was heated complaint for dessert at every meal. That Scriptural word, “Better is a dinner of herbs where love is,” might have meant much to me during those hungry days.