"He isn't
my _real_ uncle. He's just Jim, but I've always called him Uncle Jim
ever since I was a little girl. And I love him dearly; don't I, Uncle
Jim?" and she turned toward him as he entered the door carrying her
bundle, followed by her father with the kerosene lamp, Marvin having
brought it out to help Jim unload the buck-board.
"That's what ye allus says, baby-girl," answered Jim, "so I got to
believe it. And if I didn't, there wouldn't be no use o' livin'--not a
mite." There was a vibrating tenderness in the man's voice, and an
indescribable pathos in its tone, as he spoke, that caused me
instinctively to turn my head and look into his face.
The light shone full upon it--so full and direct that there were no
shadows anywhere. Whether it was because of the lamp's direct rays or
because of his long ride in the crisp November air, I could not decide,
but certain it was that Jim's face was without a wrinkle, and that he
looked twenty years younger. Even the hard, drawn lines about his mouth
and nose had disappeared.
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