It seemed strange to me, at that instant, that I ever should have
looked upon him differently, I, who had sat upon his knee in my
childhood, and cried myself to sleep within his arms, why should I
shrink from him now, when his shoulders were bending with their burden
of sorrow, and his hair growing silver, with the bitter touches of
time?
By right, he should have been my father! My poor mother had loved him
so! perhaps he was thinking of her, as he sat there, looking vacantly
out towards the west. I stole my hand from the casement, and crept
towards him slowly and gently. Still he did not heed me, he was sunk
in a reverie too profound; a little footstool lay on the floor at his
feet, I dropped myself quietly upon it, and looked up with a smile
into his face.
"Mr. Dalton!" was all I could say at the moment.
He started, as if from sleep, and turned his sad blue eyes upon me,
with a quiet wonder.
"It is you little Amey, is it?" he said, at length, taking both my
hands and bending down towards me. "How are you, little one; are you
well and happy?"
"I am not little Amey any more, Mr. Dalton," I answered, with my hands
still in his, and my eyes turned up to his good, honest face. "I have
grown into a great woman since I saw you last; I have learned many
things--sorrowful things; they have told me the story of my mother's
life, and it has changed the whole nature of my own."
"They have told you?--did they tell you all?" he asked in a low,
tremulous voice.
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