"I'll try," said Ann. But there was not much promise in the tone.

Nor did Matthew Pole himself, when he arrived, do much to help matters.
He was so hopelessly English. At least, that was the way Ann put it.
He was shy and sensitive. It is a trying combination. It made him
appear stupid and conceited. A lonely childhood had rendered him
unsociable, unadaptable. A dreamy, imaginative temperament imposed
upon him long moods of silence: a liking for long solitary walks. For
the first time Ann and Mrs. Travers were in agreement.

"A sulky young dog," commented Mrs. Travers. "If I were your uncle I'd
look out for a job for him in San Francisco."

"You see," said Ann in excuse for him, "it's such a foggy country,
England. It makes them like that."

"It's a pity they can't get out of it," said Mrs. Travers.

Also, sixteen is an awkward age for a boy. Virtues, still in the
chrysalis state, are struggling to escape from their parent vices.
Pride, an excellent quality making for courage and patience, still
appears in the swathings of arrogance. Sincerity still expresses
itself in the language of rudeness. Kindness itself is apt to be
mistaken for amazing impertinence and love of interference.

It was kindness--a genuine desire to be useful, that prompted him to
point out to Ann her undoubted faults and failings, nerved him to the
task of bringing her up in the way she should go. Mrs. Travers had
long since washed her hands of the entire business. Uncle Ab, as
Matthew also called him, had proved himself a weakling. Providence, so
it seemed to Matthew, must have been waiting impatiently for his
advent. Ann at first thought it was some new school of humour. When
she found he was serious she set herself to cure him. But she never
did. He was too conscientious for that. The instincts of the guide,
philosopher, and friend to humanity in general were already too strong
in him. There were times when Abner almost wished that Matthew Pole
senior had lived a little longer.

But he did not lose hope. At the back of his mind was the fancy that
these two children of his loves would come together. Nothing is quite
so sentimental as a healthy old bachelor. He pictured them making
unity from his confusions; in imagination heard the patter on the
stairs of tiny feet. To all intents and purposes he would be a
grandfather. Priding himself on his cunning, he kept his dream to
himself, as he thought, but under-estimat