the reply. Uncle George frequently had
to say, "There, there; that will do," to Dorry.

"Well," she insisted timidly, and almost in a whisper, "I _have_ to ask
about her, because you wasn't a girl,"--Donald, reaching behind Mr.
George, tried to pull her sleeve to check the careless grammar, but her
soul had risen above such things,--"you wasn't a girl,--and I don't
expect to go to a boys' boarding-school. Oh, Uncle, I don't, I really
don't mean to be naughty, but it's so hard, so awfully hard, to be a
girl without any mother! And when I ask about her or Aunt Kate, you
always--yes, Uncle, you really do!--you _always_ get mad. Oh, no, I
don't mean to say that; but it makes you feel so dreadfully sorry, that
you don't know how it sounds to me! You actually don't, Uncle. If I only
could remember Mamma! But, of course, I can't; and then that picture
that came to us from England looks so--so very--"

"It's lovely!" exclaimed Donald, almost indignantly.

"Yes, it's handsome, but I know Mamma wouldn't look that way now. It's
so pale and stiff. May be it's the big lace collar,--and even Liddy
can't tell me whether it was a good likeness or not. But Aunt Kate's
picture in the parlor is so different. I think it's because it was
painted when she was a little girl. Oh, it's so sweet and natural, I
want to climb up and kiss it! I really do, Uncle. That's why I want to
talk about her, and why I love her so very much. You wouldn't speak
cross to her, Uncle, if she came to life and tried to talk to you about
_us_. No, I think you'd--Oh, Uncle, Uncle! What _is_ the matter? What
makes you look so at me!"

Before Dorry fairly knew what had happened, Donald was at his uncle's
feet, looking up at him in great distress, and Uncle George was sobbing!
Only for an instant. His face was hidden in his hands, and when he
lifted it, he again had control of himself, and Dorry almost felt that
she had been mistaken. She never had seen her uncle cry, or dreamed that
he _could_ cry; and now, as she stood with her arms clasped about his
neck, crying because he had cried, she could only think, with an awed
feeling, of his tenderness, his goodness, and inwardly blame herself for
being "the hatefullest, foolishest girl in all the world." Glancing at
Donald, sure of his sympathy, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Uncle, if I did
wrong. I'll try never, never to be so--so--" She was going to say "so
wicked again," but the words would not come. She knew that she ha