He loved his niece. He loved her
for the sake of his dead brother, and as she grew in years, he came to
love her for herself. Her sturdy independent fearlessness, her
sound sense, her honest heart, and chiefly, if it must be told, her
whole-souled devotion to himself, made for her a great space in his
heart. And besides all this, they were both interested to the point of
devotion in pigs. As he watched his niece handling the little sucklings
with tender care, and listened to her appraising their varying merits
with a discriminating judgment, his heart filled up with pride in her
many accomplishments and capabilities.
"Isn't she happy, Uncle?" she exclaimed, lifting her brown, sunny face
to him.
"Ay, lassie," replied Sir Archibald, lapsing into the kindly "braid
Scots," "I ken fine how she feels."
"She's just perfectly happy," said his niece, "and awfully useful and
good. She is just like you, Uncle."
"What? Oh, thank you, I'm extremely flattered, I assure you."
"Uncle, you know what I mean! Useful and good. Here you are in this
lovely home--how lovely it is on a warm, shiny day like this!--safe from
cares and worries, where people can't get at you, and making--"
"Ah, I don't know about that," replied her uncle, shaking his head with
a frown. "Some people have neither sense nor manners.
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