I remember that the scene of
our first meeting after Caroline's death was wisely and
considerately shortened by my aunt, who took me out of the room.
She seemed to have a confused desire to keep me from leaving her
after the door had closed behind us; but I broke away and ran
downstairs to the surgery, to go and cry for my lost playmate
with the sharer of all our games, Uncle George.
I opened the surgery door and could see nobody. I dried my tears
and looked all round the room--it was empty. I ran upstairs again
to Uncle George's garret bedroom--he was not there; his cheap
hairbrush and old cast-off razor-case that had belonged to my
grandfather were not on the dressing-table. Had he got some other
bedroom? I went out on the landing and called softly, with an
unaccountable terror and sinking at my heart:
"Uncle George!"
Nobody answered; but my aunt came hastily up the garret stairs.
"Hush!" she said. "You must never call that name out here again!"
She stopped suddenly, and looked as if her own words had
frightened her.
"Is Uncle George dead?" I asked. My aunt turned red and pale, and
stammered.
I did not wait to hear what she said. I brushed past her, down
the stairs. My heart was bursting--my flesh felt cold. I ran
breathlessly and recklessly into the room where my father and
mother had received me.
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