kind face of my relative and impelled by a sudden impulse, I seized his
hand and, pressing it to my lips, said, "if I am a good boy and do my
best to please, you will love me a little, won't you, Uncle Nathan?"
"Bless your heart, child," replied my Uncle, "who on earth could help
loving you? Yes, Walter, you may be sure I shall love the son of my
favorite sister, Ellen; and, were it not so, I think I should soon love
you for yourself alone, for, if I am any judge of faces, you are better
than the general run of boys of your age."

Can this, thought I, be the man who wrote that short, crusty letter. I
must confess, that (at first sight) I was not favorably impressed by the
external appearance of the home I was approaching. I had expected to see
a handsome tasty building, painted white perhaps; with green blinds,
like those we had passed on the way from the village; and when Uncle
Nathan said "here we are, Walter, most at home," and I raised my eyes to
gain a view of the homestead, the faded dingy appearance of the house
and its surroundings struck me as unpleasant. It was a large
old-fashioned square farm-house, which had once boasted a coat of red
paint, but the winds and rains of many years had sadly marred its
beauty, so much so that, but for the patches of dull red still visible
beneath the eaves and round the windows, one would have been loth to
believe the old house had all been of a deep red. The high road lay
between the house and the long stretch of meadow-land which separated it
from the river. The picket fence in front of the dwelling was in rather
a dilapidated condition, and the gate, being minus a hinge, hung awry.
Many tall sunflowers stood in the narrow strip of ground between the
front fence and the house, and they were about all I could see in the
way of ornament. But with this rather shabby look there was after all
something inviting and attractive about the place, something that
suggested the idea of quiet and repose and cozy comfort. Reader, have