She was alone. She realised her loneliness in a great flash of
bewilderment and cold terror as though the ground had suddenly
broken away from her and she was on the edge of a vast pit. There
was no one in the house to help her. Her father was dead. The cook
and the maid were sunk in heavy slumber at the other end of the
house. There was no one to help her. She was alone, and it seemed to
her that in the shock of that discovery she realised that she would
always be alone now, for the rest of her life.

"What is it, Uncle Mathew?" she said again. Her voice was steady,
although her heart hammered. Some other part of her brain was
wondering where it was that he had got the drink. He must have had a
bottle of whisky in his room; she remembered his shyness when he
said good-night to her.

He stood in the middle of the floor, swaying on his feet and smiling
at her. The flame of the light rose and fell in jerks and spasms.

"I thought," he said, "I'd come--to see m'little Maggie, m'little
niece, jus' to talk a lill bit and cheer her up--up." He drew nearer
the bed. "She'll be lonely, I said--lonely--very--aren't you--lonely
Maggie?"

"It's very late," she said, "and you're dropping grease ail over the
floor with that candle. You go back to bed, uncle. I'm all right.
You go back to bed."

"Go back? No, no, no. Oh no, not back to bed. It'll soon be mornin'.
That'll be jolly-jolly. We'll talk--together till mornin'."