These children had been the hardest part of all to forgive,
particularly the first born, for Richard, when he heard of him had
felt all the old sorrow coming back again; a feeling as if Edith
had no right with little ones which did not call him father. But
time had healed that wound too, until from the sunny slopes of
France, where his home had so long been, his heart had often
leaped across the sea in quest of those same children now
prattling in his ear and calling him Uncle Dick. There was
another, a dearer name by which they might have called him, but he
knew now that 'twas not for him to be thus addressed. And still he
felt something like a father's love stealing into his heart as he
wound his arms around the little forms, giving back kiss for kiss,
and asking which was like their mother.
"Ain't none of us much," Dick replied, "We're like father and Aunt
Nina, hanging on the wall in the library. Mother's got big black
eyes, with winkers a rod long, and her hair shines like my velvet
coat, and comes most to her feet.
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