“I will draw the curtains,” she said; “perhaps if it be dark and quiet, you will fall asleep.  Anne, you may sit in your bedroom or take your doll for a walk.”

“Honey-Sweet and her little mother look as if they needed fresh air,” said Mrs. Patterson, smiling faintly.

Excited and vaguely troubled, but walking straight with head erect, Anne went to the bridge.  Against the railing leaned a familiar figure in blue overalls and slouch hat.  No one else was near.  The man turned.

“Nancy pet—­” it was her uncle’s name for her and it was her uncle’s voice that spoke.  “Those people are good to you?  They will take care of you till—­while you are alone?”

“Uncle Carey, Uncle Carey!  It is you!”

“Yes, it is I. Don’t come nearer, dear.  Stand by the railing with your doll.  Don’t speak till those people pass.  Now listen, little Anne.  I am hiding from men who want to put me in prison.  I can’t tell you about it.  Some day you will know.  Oh, Lord! some day you must know all.  Think of Uncle Carey sometimes, dear, and keep on loving him.  Remember how we used to sit in the sleepy-hollow chair and tell fairy tales.  My Nancy pet!  Poor little orphan baby!  It is hard to leave you alone—­dependent—­among strangers.  Here!  This little package is for you.  Lucky I forgot and left it in my pocket after I took it out of the safety deposit box.  Everything else is gone.  What will you do with it?  No, no! you can’t carry it in your hand.  Here!” He tore a strip from his handkerchief, knotted it around the little package, and tied it under her doll’s skirts.  “Be careful of it, dear.  They’re not of great value, but they were your mother’s.”

While he was speaking, Anne stood dazed.  The world seemed upside down.  Could that rough-bearded man in shabby clothes be handsome, fastidious Uncle Carey?  Ah! there was the dear loving voice, there were the dear loving eyes.  She threw her arms around her uncle and he pressed her close while she kissed him again and again.

“Uncle Carey,” she cried, “I’ve wanted you so bad.  But why do you look so—­so different?  What makes all that hair on your face?  It—­it isn’t pretty and it scratches my cheek.”  She rubbed the reddened skin with her forefinger.

“You must not tell any one that you have seen me.  Not any one.  Do you understand?” her uncle spoke hurriedly.  “If people find out that I am here, they will hunt me up and put me in prison.”

“Not Mrs. Patterson, uncle, nor Pat, nor Miss Drayton.  They are too good.  Mayn’t I tell them?”

“No, no!”

“Uncle! they wouldn’t hurt you.  And it’s such hard work to keep a secret.”

“Ah, poor child!  And it may be a long, long time,” considered Mr. Mayo.  Then he asked suddenly, “Where are you going from here?  Do you know these ladies’ plans?”

“To spend the winter in France.  The name of the place is like mine.  Nan—­Nan—­No! not Nancy.”