How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me it seemed a very long time:  at last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma’s pretty letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my uncle.  I remember that it was the first day I ever saw my father weep:  that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the parlour to poor papa, and I went in softly, and crept between my father’s knees.  My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a dislike to my uncle because he had made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother’s death was a heavy affliction; for I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her death, and what he had suffered from her loss.  My uncle said, what a sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but for me, he should have died with grief.  How I could be any comfort to my father, struck me with wonder.  I knew I was pleased when he played and talked with me; but I thought that was all goodness and favour done to me, and I had no notion how I could make any part of his happiness.  The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new and strange to me.  I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or shew any such signs of grief as those in which I used to express my little troubles.  My thoughts on these subjects were confused and childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the door.  I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and what to do with myself I did not know.  My uncle met me in the passage, and said, “Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the garden?” This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa.  My uncle tried to persuade me, but still I said, “No, no,” and ran crying into the kitchen.  As he followed me in there, Susan said, “This child is so fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her.”  “Aye,” said my uncle, “I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one.”  This reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into our dwelling:  I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all about.  He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he would manage the little wrangler by himself.