were lovely when I saw you first, and you are no less lovely in my sight
to-day."

"In your sight--at seventy!" my grandmother said; and I could picture to
myself the well-pleased expression of her dear face.

As for my Uncle Luke, of him I have but a dim memory, yet it is of
something bonny. To be sure I have his picture in my grandmother's
boudoir to remind me of him, a fair, full-lipped, smiling and merry
face, with dark brown hair which would have curled if it were permitted.
His comeliness survived even the hideous fashion of men's dress of his
day, and my memory of him is of one in riding-breeches and a scarlet
coat, for I think that must have been how I saw him oftenest.

He used to lift me to his shoulders and let me climb upon his head, and
I remember that it seemed very fine to me to survey the world from that
eminence.

I could have been no more than six years of age when my Uncle Luke
vanished out of my surroundings.

At that time Theobald had not come to be an inmate of Aghadoe, and I
noticed things as an over-wise child, accustomed to the society of its
elders, will.

I often wondered about it in later years. I had no memory of a wake and
a funeral, and I think if these things had been I should have known. But
there was a period of trouble in which I was packed away to my nursery
and the companionship of Maureen Kelly, our old nurse.