n a serious light. I've found it a bad plan interfering in
strictly domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not.'

'But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy cudgel, and
she was bleeding very fast.'

'Ah?' said my uncle, dryly.

'And only that Milly and I deterred him by saying that we would certainly
tell you, he would have struck her again; and I really think if he goes on
treating her with so much violence and cruelty he may injure her seriously,
or perhaps kill her.'

'Why, you romantic little child, people in that rank of life think
absolutely nothing of a broken head,' answered Uncle Silas, in the same
way.

'But is it not horrible brutality, uncle?'

'To be sure it is brutality; but then you must remember they are brutes,
and it suits them,' said he.

I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas's gentle nature would
have recoiled from such an outrage with horror and indignation; and
instead, here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawkes.

'And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to me,' I continued.
'Oh! impertinent to you--that's another matter. I must see to that. Nothing
more, my dear child?'

'Well, there _was_ nothing more.'

'He's a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not prepossessing,
and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a most
honest man--a thoroughly moral man, though severe--a very rough diamond
though, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society. I venture to
say he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite to
you, so we must make allowances.'

And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, and kissed my
forehead.

'Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says the Book?--"Judge
not, that ye be not judged." Your dear father acted upon that maxim--so
noble and so awful--and I strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, _longo
intervalle_, far behind! and you are removed--my example and my help; you
are gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on by
bleak and alpine paths, under the awful night.

O nuit, nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore!
Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?

And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, and one hand
lifted, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue, he sank
stiffly into his chair, and remained mute, with eyes closed for some time.
T