the woolly sleeve of
my jacket, while the tears dripped fast from her overflowing eyes.

"Stub," she brought out jerkily, between her sudden choking sobs, "I
did n't make a long face and tell Desire 'whom God hath joined'--I--I
tried to appeal to her common sense. Irreligious people often do have
a great deal of common sense, you know. {94} But--I am the child of our
fathers, too. I wish--I _wish_ she would n't do it!"

IV

I certainly expected that Desire would come to me before she went
away. I don't know what good I thought it would do. But we had always
(or I supposed so) been such friends, this niece and I, that I could
not believe she would take such an important step without an effort to
gain my approval--my toleration would be more accurate. I--well, I
thought she cared for my approval. But it seemed she did n't.

Of course, when one came to think it over, she could hardly enjoy such
an interview. No doubt she was already sore in spirit from interviews
she could not shirk,--with her mother, for {95} instance, not to
mention her husband. And my views on promiscuous divorce are as well
known in the family as are those of South Carolina. They are simple,
those views, and old-fashioned, but also, I may add, cosmic; they run
about as follows: it is hard that John and Mary should be unhappy, but
better their discomfort than that society should totter to a fall,
since all civilization rests upon the single institution of the
marriage tie. I will admit that my bachelor state doubtless helps to
keep my opinions uncomplicated.

When I came to think of it in the light of these convictions, it was
n't remarkable that Desire stayed away. And yet the foolish old uncle
in me was hurt that she did so. I felt that she ought to come and take
her medicine. Did n't thirty years of affection {96} and indulgence
give me some rights in her life?

Perhaps Mary Greening told her how I felt. At all events, in place of
a call I received a letter:--

DEAR UNCLE BEN,--

The reason I'm not coming to say good-bye to you is that I think
you'll love me better if I don't. My self-control is wearing quite
thin in spots, and I'm so tired of explaining myself (when there's
nothing to explain except that I am doing what seems right in my own
eyes) that sometimes I think I shall just die before I get started.

Uncle Ben, did n't you ever long for a life that fitted you exactly,--
a life that