she's going to read it to us."

We went promptly. A letter from the Story Girl's father was
always an event; and to hear her read it was almost as good as
hearing her tell a story.

Before coming to Carlisle, Uncle Blair Stanley had been a mere
name to us. Now he was a personality. His letters to the Story
Girl, the pictures and sketches he sent her, her adoring and
frequent mention of him, all combined to make him very real to
us.

We FELT then, what we did not understand till later years, that
our grown-up relatives did not altogether admire or approve of
Uncle Blair. He belonged to a different world from theirs. They
had never known him very intimately or understood him. I realize
now that Uncle Blair was a bit of a Bohemian--a respectable sort
of tramp. Had he been a poor man he might have been a more
successful artist. But he had a small fortune of his own and,
lacking the spur of necessity, or of disquieting ambition, he
remained little more than a clever amateur. Once in a while he
painted a picture which showed what he could do; but for the
rest, he was satisfied to wander over the world, light-hearted
and content. We knew that the Story Girl was thought to resemble
him strongly in appearance and temperament, but she had far more
fire and intensity and strength of will--her inheritance from
King and Ward. She would never be satisfied as a dabbler;
whatever her future career should be, into it she would throw all
her powers of mind and heart and soul.