"The child is called Evert, is it not, _aunt_ Maud?" he asked, laying an emphasis on 'aunt.'
Maud wished this word had not been used; and yet Robert Willoughby, could the truth have been known, had adverted to it with an association in his own mind, that would have distressed her, just then, still more. _Aunt_ Maud was the name that others, however, were most fond of adopting, since the birth of the child; and remembering this, our heroine smiled.
"That is what Beulah has called me, these six months," she said--"or ever since Evert was born. I became an aunt the day he became a nephew; and dear, good Beulah has not once called me _sister_ since, I think."
"These little creatures introduce new ties into families," answered the major, thoughtfully. "They take the places of the generations before them, and edge us out of our hold on the affections, as in the end they supplant us in our stations in life. If Beulah love me only as an _uncle_, however, she may look to it. I'll be supplanted by no Dutchman's child that was ever born!"
"_You_, Bob!" cried Maud, starting. "You are its _real_ uncle; Beulah must ever remember _you_, and _love_ you, as her _own_ brother!"
Maud's voice became suddenly hushed, like one who feared she had said too much. The major gazed at her intently, but he spoke not; nor did his companion see his look, her own eyes being cast meekly and tremblingly on the earth at her feet. A considerable pause succeeded, and then the conversation reverted to what was going on in the valley.
The sun was now set, and the shadows of evening began to render objects a little indistinct beneath them. Still it was apparent that much anxiety prevailed in and about the Hut, doubtless on account of our heroine's absence. So great was it, indeed, as entirely to supersede the hanging of the remaining leaf of the gate, which stood in the gap where it belonged, stayed by pieces of timber, but unhung. The major thought some disposition had been made, however, by which the inmates might pass and repass by the half that was suspended, making a tolerable defence, when all was closed.
"Hist!" whispered Maud, whose faculties were quickened by the danger of her companion; "I hear the voice of Michael, and they approach. No sense of danger can repress poor O'Hearn's eloquence; his ideas seeming to flow from his tongue very much as they rise to his thoughts, chance directing which shall appear first."