question me. When I had ended,

"Is that everything?" he asked, with a smile so like all he had ever been
to me, that my whole heart seemed to go out to meet it.

"Yes, uncle," I answered; "I think I may say so--except that I have not
dwelt upon my feelings. Love, they say, is shy; and I fancy you will
pardon me that portion."

"Willingly, my child. More is quite unnecessary."

"Then you know all about it, uncle?" I ventured. "I was afraid you might
not understand me. Could any one, do you think, that had not had the same
experience?"

He made me no answer. I looked up. He was ghastly white; his head had
fallen back against the bed. I started up, hardly smothering a shriek.

"What is it, uncle?" I gasped. "Shall I fetch Martha?"

"No, my child," he answered. "I shall be better in a moment. I am subject
to little attacks of the heart, but they do not mean much. Give me some
of that medicine on the table."

In a few minutes his colour began to return, and the smile which was
forced at first, gradually brightened until it was genuine.

"I will tell you the whole story one day," he said, "--whether in this
world, I am doubtful. But _when_ is nothing, or _where_, with eternity
before us."