I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, was formidable; and we, sitting at a table disproportionably large, under the cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, Uncle Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself--and that was not often--you may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence. When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing in her breath, said, 'Oh!' and, with round eyes and mouth, she looked so delighted; and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point of jumping up; and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; and staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled down her round penitential cheeks. I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd; but it is well that small matters can stir the affections so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach us. When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering-- 'I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil; and I'll never call you a name, but Maud--my darling Maud.' 'You must, Milly--Mrs. Bustle. I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. You must.' I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet. So Milly and I were better friends than ever. Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly's way of talking about them. But one day, while in one of his 'queerish' states, he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared. In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L'Amour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections. She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered-- 'Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks; he'll come to for a bit, anon.' Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions. There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip of white eyeball was also disclosed.