“Yes, uncle,” she said, the tears stealing down her cheeks, “but—­perhaps he wouldn’t care now, and mamma is so sorely distressed at the thought of separation; and—­and it hurts me too; for she is my mother, and I have no father now—­or brother, or sister.”

“You must let me be a father to you, my poor, dear child,” he said in moved tones, and drawing her closer; “I will do my utmost to fill his place to you, and I hope you will come to me always with your troubles and perplexities, feeling the same assurance of finding sympathy and help that you did in carrying them to him.”

“Oh, thank you!” she responded.  “I think you are a dear, kind uncle, and very much like papa; you remind me of him very often in your looks, and words and ways.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” he answered.  “I had a great admiration for that dear brother, and for his sake as well as her own, I am very fond of his little daughter.  And now about this question.  I shall not compel your obedience to your father’s wishes—­at least not for the present—­but shall leave the decision to your own heart and conscience.  Take a day or two to think over the matter, and then let me hear your decision.

“In the meantime, if you can persuade your mamma to go with us to Fairview, that will make it all smooth and easy for you.”

“Thank you, dear uncle,” she said, as he released her and turned to his work again, “I will go now and try what I can do to induce mamma to accept your kind invitation.  And please excuse me for interrupting you when you were so busy.”

“I am never too busy to attend to you, Evelyn,” he returned in a kindly tone; “come freely to me whenever you will.”

Crossing the hall, Evelyn noticed the carriage of an intimate friend of her mother drawn up before the entrance.

“Mrs. Lang must be calling on mamma,” she said to herself; and pausing near the half-open parlor door, she saw them sitting side by side on a sofa, conversing in earnest, through subdued tones.

The call proved a long one.  Evelyn waited with what patience she might, vainly trying to interest herself in a book; her thoughts much too full of her own near future to admit of her doing so.

At last Mrs. Lang took her departure, and Evelyn, following her mother into her bedroom, gave a detailed account of her late interview with her uncle.

“Mamma dear, you will go with us, will you not?” she concluded persuasively.

“No, I shall not!” was the angry rejoinder.  “Spend weeks and months in a dull country place, with no more enlivening society than that of your uncle and aunt? indeed, no!  You will have to choose between them and me; if you love them better than you do your own mother, elect, by all means, to forsake me and go with them.”

“Mamma,” remonstrated poor Evelyn, tears of wounded feeling in her eyes, “it is not a question of loving you or them best, but of obeying my father’s dying wish.”