"She says they are going to stay in Paris yet a good while longer."
"Hum!" ? said Mr. Ringgan. "Well ? that aint the wisest thing I should like to hear of her doing."
"Oh, but it's because uncle Rossitur likes to stay there, I suppose, isn't it, grandpa?"
"I don't know, dear. Maybe your aunt's caught the French fever. She used to be a good sensible woman; but when people will go into a whirligig, I think some of their wits get blown away before they come out. Well ? what else?"
"I am sure she is very kind," said Fleda. "She wants to have me go out there and live with her very much. She says I shall have everything I like, and do just as I please, and she will make a pet of me, and give me all sorts of pleasant things.
She says she will take as good care of me as ever I took of the kittens. And there's a long piece to you about it, that I'll give you to read as soon as we have a light. It is very good of her, isn't it, grandpa? I love aunt Lucy very much."
"Well," said Mr. Ringgan, after a pause, "how does she propose to get you there?"
"Why," said Fleda, ? "isn't it curious? ? she says there is a Mrs. Carleton here, who is a friend of hers, and she is going to Paris in a little while, and aunt Lucy asked her if she wouldn't bring me, if you would let me go, and she said she would with great pleasure, and aunt Lucy wants me to come out with her."
"Carleton! ? Hum ?" said Mr. Ringgan; " that must be this young man's mother?'"
"Yes, aunt Lucy says she is here with her son, ? at least she says they were coming."
"A very gentlemanly young man, indeed," said Mr. Ringgan.
There was a grave silence. The old gentleman sat looking on the floor; Fleda sat looking into the fire with all her might.
"Well," said Mr. Ringgan after a little, "how would you like it, Fleda?"
"What, grandpa?"
"To go out to Paris to your aunt, with this Mrs. Carleton?"
"I shouldn't like it at all," said Fleda, smiling and letting her eyes go back to the fire. But looking, after the pause of a minute or two, again to her grandfather's face, she was struck with its expression of stern anxiety. She rose instantly, and coming to him, and laying one hand gently on his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the touch of a moonbeam on the water, "_You_ do not want me to go, do you, grandpa?"
"No, dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon hers, ? "no, dear! ? that is the last thing I want!"
But Fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection, but something of _regret_ in the voice, which troubled her. She stood, anxious and fearing while her grandfather lifting his hand again and again, let it fall gently upon hers; and amid all the fondness of the action, Fleda somehow seemed to feel in it the same regret.
"You'll not let aunt Lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from you, will you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both arms affectionately on his knee, and looking up into his face.
"No, indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual heartiness, ? "not as long as I have a place to keep you.
While I have a roof to put my head under, it shall cover yours."
To Fleda's hope that would have said enough; but her grandfather's face was so moved from its wonted expression of calm dignity, that it was plain _his_ hope was tasting bitter things. Fleda watched in silent grief and amazement the watering eye and unnerved lip; till her grandfather, indignantly dashing away a tear or two, drew her close to his breast and kissed her. But she well guessed that the reason why he did not for a minute or two say anything, was because he could not. Neither could she. She was fighting with her woman's nature to keep it down, ? learning the lesson early!
"Ah well," ? said Mr. Ringgan at length, in a kind of tone that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the too keen-wrought feelings of his little grand-daughter, ?
"there will be a way opened for us somehow. We must let our Heavenly Father take care of us."
"And he will, grandpa," whispered Fleda.
"Yes, dear! We are selfish creatures. Your father's and your mother's child will not be forgotten."
"Nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a great effort.
"No," said he, clasping her more tenderly, ? "no ? it would be wicked in me to doubt it. He has blessed me all my life long with a great many more blessings than I deserved; and if he chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days, I will bow my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well, though I cannot see it."
"Don't, dear grandpa," said Fleda, stealing her other arm round his neck and hiding her face there, ? "please don't!"
He very much regretted that he had said too much. He did not, however, know exactly how to mend it. He kissed her, and stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made it more difficult for Fleda to recover herself, which she was struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of cheering, his voice trembled. Fleda's heart was breaking, but she felt that she was making matters worse, and she had already concluded, on a mature review of circumstances, that it was her duty to be cheerful. So, after a few very heartfelt tears which she could not help, she raised her head and smiled, even while she wiped the traces of them away.
"After all, grandpa," said she, "perhaps Mr. Jolly will come here in the morning with some good news, and then we should be troubling ourselves just for nothing."
"Perhaps he will," said Mr. Ringgan, in a way that sounded much more like "Perhaps he wont!" But Fleda was determined now not to _seem_ discouraged again. She thought the best way was to change the conversation.
"It is very kind in aunt Lucy, isn't it, grandpa, what she has written to me?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Ringgan, decidedly; "I can't say I think it is any very extraordinary manifestation of kindness in anybody to want you."
Fleda smiled her thanks for this compliment.
"It might be a kindness in me to give you to her."
"It wouldn't be a kindness to me, grandpa."
"I don't know about that," said he, gravely. They were getting back to the old subject. Fleda made another great effort at a diversion.
"Grandpa, was my father like my uncle Rossitur in anything?"
The diversion was effected.
"Not he, dear!" said Mr. Ringgan. "Your father had ten times the man in him that ever your uncle was."
"Why, what kind of a man is uncle Rossitur, grandpa?"
"Ho dear! I can't tell. I ha'n't seen much of him. I wouldn't judge a man without knowing more of him than I do of Mr.
Rossitur. He seemed an amiable kind of man. But no one would ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow, when your father was by."
The diversion took effect on Fleda herself now. She looked up pleased.
"You remember your father, Fleda."
"Yes, grandpa, but not very well always. I remember a great many things about him, but I can't remember exactly how he looked, except once or twice."
"Ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. But he was a noble-looking man ? in form and face too ? and his looks were the worst part of him. He seemed made of different stuff from all the people around," said Mr. Ringgan, sighing, "and they felt it too, I used to notice, without knowing it. When his cousins were 'Sam,' and 'Johnny,' and 'Bill,' he was always, that is after he grew up, '_Mr. Walter_.' I believe they were a little afeard of him. And with all his bravery and fire he could be as gentle as a woman."
"I know that," said Fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "What made him be a soldier, grandpa? "
"Oh, I don't know, dear! ? he was too good to make a farmer of ? or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world ? he couldn't rest without trying to be something more than other folks. I don't know whether people are any happier for it."
"Did _he_ go to West Point, grandpa?"
"No, dear! ? he started without having so much of a push as that; but he was one of those that don't need any pushing; he would have worked his way up, put him anywhere you would, and he did, ? over the heads of West Pointers and all, and would have gone to the top, I verily believe, if he had lived long enough. He was as fine a fellow as there was in all the army.