He was smoking a pipe beside the fire, and Ann, who ought to have been in bed, had perched herself upon one of the arms of his chair and was kicking a hole in the worn leather with her little heels.
"She was very beautiful, my mother, wasn't she?" suggested Ann.
Abner Herrick blew a cloud from his pipe and watched carefully the curling smoke.
"In a way, yes," he answered. "Quite beautiful."
"What do you mean, 'In a way'?" demanded Ann with some asperity.
"It was a spiritual beauty, your mother's," Abner explained. "The soul looking out of her eyes. I don't think it possible to imagine a more beautiful disposition than your mother's. Whenever I think of your mother," continued Abner after a pause, "Wordsworth's lines always come into my mind."
He murmured the quotation to himself, but loud enough to be heard by sharp ears. Miss Kavanagh was mollified.
"You were in love with my mother, weren't you?" she questioned him kindly.
"Yes, I suppose I was," mused Abner, still with his gaze upon the curling smoke.
"What do you mean by 'you suppose you were'?" snapped Ann. "Didn't you know?"
The tone recalled him from his dreams.
"I was in love with your mother very much," he corrected himself, turning to her with a smile.
"Then why didn't you marry her?" asked Ann. "Wouldn't she have you?"
"I never asked her," explained Abner.
"Why not?" persisted Ann, returning to asperity.
He thought a moment.
"You wouldn't understand," he told her.
"Yes, I would," retorted Ann.
"No, you wouldn't," he contradicted her quite shortly. They were both beginning to lose patience with one another. "No woman ever could."
"I'm not a woman," explained Ann, "and I'm very smart. You've said so yourself."
"Not so smart as all that," growled Abner. "Added to which, it's time for you to go to bed."
Her anger with him was such that it rendered her absolutely polite.
It had that occasional effect upon her. She slid from the arm of his chair and stood beside him, a rigid figure of frozen femininity.
"I think you are quite right, Uncle Herrick. Good night!" But at the door she could not resist a parting shot:
"You might have been my father, and then perhaps she wouldn't have died. I think it was very wicked of you."
After she was gone Abner sat gazing into the fire, and his pipe went out. Eventually the beginnings of a smile stole to the corners of his mouth, but before it could spread any farther he dismissed it with a sigh.
Abner, for the next day or two, feared a renewal of the conversation, but Ann appeared to have forgotten it; and as time went by it faded from Abner's own memory. Until one evening quite a while later.
The morning had brought him his English mail. It had been arriving with some regularity, and Ann had noticed that Abner always opened it before his other correspondence. One letter he read through twice, and Ann, who was pretending to be reading the newspaper, felt that he was looking at her.
"I have been thinking, my dear," said Abner, "that it must be rather lonely for you here, all by yourself."
"It would be," answered Ann, "if I were here all by myself."
"I mean," said Abner, "without any other young person to talk to and--and to play with."
"You forget," said Ann, "that I'm nearly thirteen."
"God bless my soul," said Abner. "How time does fly!"
"Who is she?" asked Ann.
"It isn't a 'she,'" explained Abner. "It's a 'he.' Poor little chap lost his mother two years ago, and now his father's dead. I thought--it occurred to me we might put him up for a time. Look after him a bit. What do you think? It would make the house more lively, wouldn't it?"
"It might," said Ann.
She sat very silent, and Abner, whose conscience was troubling him, watched her a little anxiously. After a time she looked up.
"What's he like?" she asked.
"Precisely what I am wondering myself," confessed Abner. "We shall have to wait and see. But his mother--his mother," repeated Abner, "was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. If he is anything like she was as a girl--" He left the sentence unfinished.
"You have not seen her since--since she was young?" questioned Ann.
Abner shook his head. "She married an Englishman. He took her back with him to London."
"I don't like Englishmen," said Ann.
"They have their points," suggested Abner. "Besides, boys take after their mothers, they say." And Abner rose and gathered his letters together.
Ann remained very thoughtful all that day. In the evening, when Abner for a moment laid down his pen for the purpose of relighting his pipe, Ann came to him, seating herself on the corner of the desk.
"I suppose," she said, "that's why you never married mother?"
Abner's mind at the moment was much occupied with the Panama Canal.
"What mother?" he asked. "Whose mother?"
"My mother," answered Ann. "I suppose men are like that."
"What are you talking about?" said Abner, dismissing altogether the Panama Canal.
"You loved my mother very much," explained Ann with cold deliberation. "She always made you think of Wordsworth's perfect woman."
"Who told you all that?" demanded Abner.
"You did."
"I did?"
"It was the day you took me away from Miss Carew's because she said she couldn't manage me," Ann informed him.
"Good Lord! Why, that must be two years ago," mused Abner.
"Three," Ann corrected him. "All but a few days."
"I wish you'd use your memory for things you're wanted to remember," growled Abner.
"You said you had never asked her to marry you," pursued Ann relentlessly; "you wouldn't tell me why. You said I shouldn't understand."
"My fault," muttered Abner. "I forget you're a child. You ask all sorts of questions that never ought to enter your head, and I'm fool enough to answer you."
One small tear that had made its escape unnoticed by her was stealing down her cheek. He wiped it away and took one of her small paws in both his hands.
