across the dark river of death.  He had mingled much with the world since last he had traversed that road, and his heart had grown callous and indifferent, but he was not entirely hardened, and when at the “turn” in the road, he came suddenly upon the tall walnut tree, on whose shaggy bark his name was carved, together with that of another—­a maiden—­he started as if smitten with a heavy blow, and dashing a tear from his eye he exclaimed “Oh that I were a boy again!”

From her seat on the mossy rock ’Lena had been watching him.  She was very ardent and impulsive, strong in her likes and dislikes, but quite ready to change the latter if she saw any indications of improvement in the person disliked.  For her uncle she had conceived a great aversion, and when she saw him approaching, thrusting aside the thistles and dandelions with his gold-headed cane, she mimicked his motions, wondering “if he didn’t feel big because he wore a large gold chain dangling from his jacket pocket.”

But when she saw his emotions beneath the walnut tree, her opinion suddenly changed.  “A very bad man wouldn’t cry,” she thought, and springing to his side, she grasped his hand, exclaiming, “I know you are my Uncle John, and I’m real glad you’ve come.  Granny thought you never would, and grandpa asks for you all the time.”

Had his buried sister arisen before him, Mr. Livingstone would hardly have been more startled, for in form and feature ’Lena was exactly what her mother had been at her age.  The same clear complexion, large brown eyes, and wavy hair; and the tones of her voice, too, how they thrilled the heart of the strong man, making him a boy again, guiding the steps of his baby sister, or bearing her gently in his arms when the path was steep and stony.  It was but a moment, however, and then the vision faded.  His sister was dead, and the little girl before him was her child—­the child of shame he believed, or rather, his wife had said it so often that he began to believe it.  Glancing at the old-womanish garb in which Mrs. Nichols always arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and pity curled his lips, as he thought of presenting her to his fastidious wife and elegant daughters; then withdrawing the hand which she had taken, he said, “And you are ’Lena—­’Lena Nichols they call you, I suppose.”

’Lena’s old dislike began to return, and placing both hands upon her hips in imitation of her grandmother she replied, “No ’tain’t ’Lena Nichols, neither.  It’s ’Lena Rivers.  Granny says so, and the town clark has got it so on his book.  How are my cousins?  Are they pretty well?  And how is Ant?”

Mr. Livingstone winced, at the same time feeling amused at this little specimen of Yankeeism, in which he saw so much of his mother.  Poor little ’Lena! how should she know any better, living as she always had with two old people, whose language savored so much of the days before the flood!  Some such thought passed through Mr. Livingstone’s mind, and very civilly he answered her concerning the health of her cousins and aunt; proceeding next to question her of his father, who, she said, “had never seen a well day since her mother died.”