Turning away from her uncle she folded her face in her arms like a small child and sobbed.

Standing, looking at her bent shoulders, her square, ugly figure, her shabby old hat with its dingy black ribbon, pushed a little to the side of her head, Uncle Mathew thought that she was a most uncomprehensible girl.

If she felt like that about her father why should she cry; and if she cried she must surely have some affection for his memory.

All he could say was: "There, there, my dear--Well, well.

It's all right." He felt foolish and helpless.
She turned round at last, drying her eyes.