Christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a dutiful
affection which could not fail to win its way. Baby unconsciously
lent a hand, for Uncle Enos could not long withstand the sweet
enticements of this little kinswoman. He did not own the conquest in
words, but was seen to cuddle his small captivator in private;
allowed all sorts of liberties with his spectacles, his pockets, and
bald pate; and never seemed more comfortable than when she
confiscated his newspaper, and sitting on his knee read it to him in
a pretty language of her own.
"She's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you; but you warn't
never such a quiet puss as she is," he said one day, as the child
was toddling about the room with an old doll of her mother's lately
disinterred from its tomb in the garret.
"She is like her father in that. But I get quieter as I grow old,
uncle," answered Christie, who sat sewing near him.
"You be growing old, that's a fact; but somehow it's kind of
becomin'. I never thought you'd be so much of a lady, and look so
well after all you've ben through," added Uncle Enos, vainly trying
to discover what made Christie's manners so agreeable in spite of
her plain dress, and her face so pleasant in spite of the gray hair
at her temples and the lines about her mouth.
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