"I am Nansie," was the reply. "I recognized you, uncle, by your likeness to my dear father." "And I recognized you," he said, "by your likeness to your dear mother. How like you are to her--how like, how like!" "I am glad," said Nansie. "My dear father always said I was growing to resemble her more and more. Uncle, am I welcome?" "Quite welcome. Come in." He was himself once more; and he took her hands in his, and conducted her into his shop. Timothy gazed at Nansie with worshipping eyes as she passed from the open, and stood gazing--for how long he knew not--until he was aroused by Mr. Loveday suddenly appearing from the shop, and calling out to him, in an agitated tone, to run for a doctor. "No, no," cried Nansie's voice from within, "I do not need a doctor. I only fainted a moment, I was so tired. You don't know the ways of women, uncle." "How should I," he said, rejoining her, "having so small an acquaintance with them?" "But you said I was welcome, uncle?" she said, in a solicitous tone. "And you are." "You are glad to see me?" "Yes. Why have I not seen you before? Why have I not heard from you?" "I wrote to you, uncle." "Telling me you were married. Yes, I forgot." "You did not reply." "I saw no occasion. I thought if you wanted me you would write again, or come." "Here I am, as you see, uncle." "I see. Wanting me?" "I--I think so, uncle. You shall judge." "You speak in a voice of doubt. Listen to me, Nansie. I may call you so?" "Surely, surely. It gives me pleasure." "Listen, then. If there is anything in my voice or manner to cause you uneasiness, account for it by the fact that I know little of women, as you yourself said. It is sometimes my way--not always, and seldom unless I am somewhat shaken. If you had informed me that you were coming I should have been prepared. I should not then have thought, when my eyes fell upon you, that it was your mother I was gazing upon, and not her daughter." "I am sorry," murmured Nansie. "There is nothing to be sorry for. These reminders do a man--especially a recluse like myself--no harm. You are turning white. Are you going to faint again?" "No; I will not allow myself." "I have some brandy in the house. Shall I give you a little? It is a medicine." "No, thank you, uncle; I never touch it." "What is it, then, that makes you so white? Stay. A cup of tea?" "If you please, uncle." "I am a dunderhead. Timothy!" No _genii_ in Eastern tales ever appeared more promptly at a summons. "Yes, sir." "Make some tea; the best--quick!" Timothy glanced at Nansie, nodded, and vanished. "That is my assistant," said Mr. Loveday; "a treasure. A man, a boy, a girl, a woman, rolled into one. He can sew on buttons." Nansie laughed, and Mr. Loveday gasped. "Don't mind me," he said, in explanation. "Your laugh is so like your mother's. You see, Nansie, until I grow more accustomed to you, I shall find myself driven into the past."