When she had gone, our aromatic uncle—­for we shall always continue to think of him in that light, or rather in that odor—­ looked thoughtfully after her till she disappeared, and then made one of the few remarks I ever knew him to volunteer.

“Ain’t changed a mite in forty-seven years.”

Up to this time I had been in a dazed condition of mind.  As I have said, my wife’s family was extinct save for herself and Aunt Lucretia, and she remembered so little of her parents, and she looked herself so little like Aunt Lucretia, that it was small wonder that neither of us remarked Uncle David’s unlikeness to the family type.  We knew that he did not resemble the ideal we had formed of him; and that had been the only consideration we had given to his looks.  Now, it took only a moment of reflection to recall the fact that all the members of the family had been tall and shapely, and that even between the ugly ones, like Aunt Lucretia, and the pretty ones, like my wife, there was a certain resemblance.  Perhaps it was only the nose—­the nose is the brand in most families, I believe—­but whatever it was, I had only to see my wife and Aunt Lucretia together to realize that the man who had passed himself off as our Uncle David had not one feature in common with either of them—­nor with the one-armed man in the daguerreotype.  I was thinking of this, and looking at my wife’s troubled face, when our aromatic uncle touched me on the arm.

“I’ll explain,” he said, “to you.  You tell her.”

We dismissed the carriage, went into the house, and sat down.  The old gentleman was perfectly cool and collected, but he lit his clay pipe, and reflected for a good five minutes before he opened his mouth.  Then he began: 

“Finest man in the world, sir.  Finest boy in the world.  Never anything like him.  But, peculiarities.  Had ’em.  Peculiarities.  Wouldn’t write home.  Wouldn’t”—­here he hesitated—­“send things home.  I had to do it.  Did it for him.  Didn’t want his folks to know.  Other peculiarities.  Never had any money.  Other peculiarities.  Drank.  Other peculiarities.  Ladies.  Finest man in the world, all the same.  Nobody like him.  Kept him right with his folks for thirty-one years.  Then died.  Fever.  Canton.  Never been myself since.  Kept right on writing, all the same.  Also”—­here he hesitated again—­“sending things.  Why?  Don’t know.  Been a fool all my life.  Never could do anything but make money.  No family, no friends.  Only him.  Ran away to sea to look after him.  Did look after him.  Thought maybe your wife would be some like him.  Barring peculiarities, she is.  Getting old.  Came here for company.  Meant no harm.  Didn’t calculate on Miss Lucretia.”

Here he paused and smoked reflectively for a minute or two.

“Hot in the collar—­Miss Lucretia.  Haughty.  Like him, some.  Just like she was forty-seven years ago.  Slapped my face one day when I was delivering meat, because my jumper wasn’t clean.  Ain’t changed a mite.”