"My dear niece," he wrote, "the intelligence you have conveyed to me of your dear father's death has deeply affected me--"
He broke off here and sat, pen in hand, ruminating, with his eyes fixed upon the words he had written. "I suppose," he thought, "that life could not be carried on without duplicity. Here am I, for the purpose of self-defence, where I am not openly accused, and of proving that I am not quite a monster, calmly presenting myself in a false light to a young person whom I saw only once in my life and do not in the least remember. But what kind of a world would this be, I wonder, if the exact truth were always told?"
"I knew that he was ill, but had no idea he was in a dangerous state, or I should not have neglected coming to see him. However, there is no recalling the past, and regrets, though poignant, are idle in a case like this, where the blow that has fallen is irremediable. I do not intend to reproach you for your neglect of a duty, which very likely, because of our being comparative strangers, did not present itself to you in such a light, but I feel strongly the loss of the opportunity of attending my dear brother's funeral. Had you written to me when he died I certainly should have come down to you, and have done whatever lay in my power to soften your affliction."
He broke off again and mused. "'Words, words, words,' as Hamlet says. And yet I could almost deceive myself by believing that they are true. I _should_ have gone down, and perhaps with something of the full heart which I am endeavoring to express to my niece Nansie. It is a curious way of spelling the name, but I like it better than Nancy. It is more poetical; but there was always a vein of poetry in my brother's nature." The tenderness in him was growing stronger, and he found comfort in it as he plied his pen again.
"I will not ask you why you were silent. You doubtless had your reasons, one of which, perhaps, was that you were doubtful of me, and that you regarded me as little better than a stranger. In this you are not to blame, but if such a feeling exists I desire to remove it. Some little while ago your father wrote to me of his circumstances, and of his anxiety respecting you in the event of anything happening to him. In my reply, I told him that you could always find a home with me. From imperfect knowledge I gather that my dear brother left but little worldly wealth behind him; and my principal object in writing to you now is to convey to you the offer of my home which I made to him. Whether we should suit each other remains to be seen, but I would endeavor honestly to be kind to you, and if you inherit any of your father's amiable qualities, I have no doubt that we should get along comfortably together. I have no ties of women and children about me; my home is a poor one, but such as it is, it is yours if you choose to accept it."