“She’s A good little gal!  Looks consid’able like you.”

“How are you goin’ to eddicate the little gal?  I s’pose you think as much of culter and so on as ever you did,” he presently added with a gruff laugh.

“More,” answered Christie, smiling too, as she remembered the old quarrels.  “I shall earn the money, sir.  If the garden fails I can teach, nurse, sew, write, cook even, for I’ve half a dozen useful accomplishments at my fingers’ ends, thanks to the education you and dear Aunt Betsey gave me, and I may have to use them all for Pansy’s sake.”

Pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience-stricken at the small share he deserved of it, Uncle Enos sat rubbing up his glasses a minute, before he led to the subject he had in his mind.

“Ef you fall sick or die, what then?”

“I’ve thought of that,” and Christie caught up the child as if her love could keep even death at bay.  But Pansy soon struggled down again, for the dirty-faced doll was taking a walk and could not be detained.  “If I am taken from her, then my little girl must do as her mother did.  God has orphans in His special care, and He won’t forget her I am sure.”

Uncle Enos had a coughing spell just then; and, when he got over it, he said with an effort, for even to talk of giving away his substance cost him a pang: 

“I’m gettin’ into years now, and it’s about time I fixed up matters in case I’m took suddin’.  I always meant to give you a little suthing, but as you didn’t ask for’t, I took good care on ’t, and it ain’t none the worse for waitin’ a spell.  I jest speak on’t, so you needn’t be anxious about the little gal.  It ain’t much, but it will make things easy I reckon.”

“You are very kind, uncle; and I am more grateful than I can tell.  I don’t want a penny for myself, but I should love to know that my daughter was to have an easier life than mine.”

“I s’pose you thought of that when you come so quick?” said the old man, with a suspicious look, that made Christie’s eyes kindle as they used to years ago, but she answered honestly: 

“I did think of it and hope it, yet I should have come quicker if you had been in the poor-house.”

Neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity and gratitude, the two natures struck fire when they met as inevitably as flint and steel.

“What’s your opinion of missionaries,” asked Uncle Enos, after a spell of meditation.

“If I had any money to leave them, I should bequeath it to those who help the heathen here at home, and should let the innocent Feejee Islanders worship their idols a little longer in benighted peace,” answered Christie, in her usual decided way.