My reader must not imagine that the prevailing silence of the house
oppressed me. I had been brought up in it, and never felt it. My own
thoughts, if thoughts those conditions of mind could be called, which
were chiefly passive results of external influences--whatever they
were--thoughts or feelings, sensations, or dim, slow movements of
mind--they filled the great pauses of speech; and besides, I could read
the faces of both my uncle and aunt like the pages of a well-known
book. Every shade of alteration in them I was familiar with, for their
changes were not many.

Although my uncle's habit was silence, however, he would now and then
take a fit of talking to me. I remember many such talks; the better,
perhaps, that they were divided by long intervals. I had perfect
confidence in his wisdom, and submission to his will. I did not much
mind my aunt. Perhaps her deference to my uncle made me feel as if she
and I were more on a level. She must have been really kind, for she
never resented any petulance or carelessness. Possibly she sacrificed
her own feeling to the love my uncle bore me; but I think it was rather
that, because he cared for me, she cared for me too.

Twice during every meal she would rise from the table with some dish in
her hand, open the door behind the chimney, and ascend the winding
stair.




CHAPTER III.