b the conversation; but I would go back to the
parlour to _poor papa_, and I went in softly, and crept between my
father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned
sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a
dislike to my uncle because he had made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for
I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her
death, and what he had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a
sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but
my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but
for me, he should have died with grief. How I could be any comfort to
my father, struck me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played
and talked with me; but I thought that was all goodness and favour
done to me, and I had no notion how I could make any part of his
happiness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and
strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice
was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or
shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my
little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and
childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story
of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to
the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the
door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study,
and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the
passage, and said, "Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the
garden?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old
amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried
to persuade me, but still I said, "No, no," and ran crying into the
kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, "This child is so
fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her." "Aye," said my
uncle, "I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This
reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for
I had not forgot that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into
our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what
it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he
would manage the little wrangler by himself. When my uncle was gone I
ceased crying