er surprised her aunt by exclaiming: "How can you
talk of things other people have and not want them, Aunt Mary?"

"Why should I desire what I cannot have, my dear? I take such pleasure
out of my friends' possessions as I can."

"But you want to go to the seashore, I know you do. I've heard you say
so," Honora protested.

"I should like to see the open ocean before I die," admitted Aunt Mary,
unexpectedly. "I saw New York harbour once, when we went to meet you.
And I know how the salt water smells--which is as much, perhaps, as I
have the right to hope for. But I have often thought it would be nice to
sit for a whole summer by the sea and listen to the waves dashing upon
the beach, like those in the Chase picture in Mr. Dwyer's gallery."

Aunt Mary little guessed the unspeakable rebellion aroused in Honora by
this acknowledgment of being fatally circumscribed. Wouldn't Uncle Tom
ever be rich?

Aunt Mary shook her head--she saw no prospect of it.

But other men, who were not half so good as Uncle Tom, got rich.

Uncle Tom was not the kind of man who cared for riches. He was content
to do his duty in that sphere where God had placed him.

Poor Aunt Mary. Honora never asked her uncle such questions: to do so
never occurred to her. At peace with all men, he gave of his best to
children, and Honora remained a child. Next to his flowers, walking was
Uncle Tom's chief recreation, and from the time she could be guided by
the hand she went with him. His very presence had the gift of dispelling
longings, even in the young; the gift of compelling delight in simple
things. Of a Sunday afternoon, if the heat were not too great, he would
take Honora to the wild park that stretches westward of the city, and
something of the depth and intensity of his pleasure in the birds,
the forest, and the wild flowers would communicate itself to her. She
learned all unconsciously (by suggestion, as it were) to take delight in
them; a delight that was to last her lifetime, a never failing resource
to which she was to turn again and again. In winter, they went to the
botanical gardens or the Zoo. Uncle Tom had a passion for animals, and
Mr. Isham, who was a director, gave him a pass through the gates. The
keepers knew him, and spoke to him with kindly respect. Nay, it seemed
to Honora that the very animals knew him, and offered themselves
ingratiatingly to be stroked by one whom they recognized as friend.
Jaded horses in the street lifted th