Quiet as it was at the old house, it had always been a source of happiness to us to be allowed to make a visit to Uncle John.  There, if that were possible, we did more as we pleased than even at home; there were not even the conventionalities of society to restrain us; we were in the country, comparatively.  And who like Uncle John knew what real country pleasures were? who like him could provide for every contingency? who was so full of expedients in those happy gypsying expeditions which we would entice him into, and which sometimes lasted for days, nay, weeks?  He would mount Alice and myself on two of his sure-footed little Indian ponies, with which his trader friends always kept him supplied; and throwing a pair of saddle-bags, filled with what he called our woman’s traps, over his own, he would start with us for a trip across the country for miles, stopping at the farm-houses at night, laughing us out of our conventional notions about the conveniences of lodging, and so forth,—­and camping out during the day, making what we called a continuous picnic.  And then the stories he would tell us of his adventures among the Blackfeet,—­of his trading expeditions,—­his being taken prisoner by the Sioux,—­his life in the forts,—­till Alice would creep nearer to him in her nervous excitement, as if to be sure that he was really with her, and then beg him to go on and tell us something more.  Once I asked him how he happened to go out among the Indians.  His face darkened,—­“My little Kate, you must not ask questions,”—­and as I turned to Alice, her eyes were full of tears.  She had been looking at him while I spoke, and she told me afterwards that something about Uncle John’s lips made her cry, they quivered so, and were set afterwards so tight.  We never asked him that question again.

But the ferry-boat, “The Belle of Newport,” has neared the landing while I have been introducing Uncle John, and the soft summer twilight saw us wending our way through the town towards the Kentucky hills, whose rounded outlines were still bright with the evening red.  Just on the rise of the nearest was the Old House,—­for it went with us by no other name,—­and at the garden-gate stood Uncle John, his face brightening as he saw us, while behind him a row of eager faces showed their wide-stretched mouths and white teeth.

“Come to spend two or three days, Alice?” said Uncle John, that evening, as we sat with shaded lamp in the study, his moccasined feet resting on the window-seat, while he sank into the depths of his leather-covered Spanish chair.  “Why, what has become of the parties that Aunt Molly heard about in your kitchen on her way to market yesterday?  Where are all our handsome young students that were coming home for the holidays?  Remember, I’ll have none of them following you over here, and disarranging my books by way of showing off their knowledge.”

Alice laughed.  “Not a soul knows where we are, Uncle John, except mamma, and she promised not to tell.  Laura C. has a party to-night, and she will be provoked enough at our running away; but the truth is,——­well, Uncle John, I am tired of parties; indeed, I am tired of our way of living, and—­and Kate and I thought we would come and ask you what we ought to do about it.”