CHAPTER XXXII.
TWICE TWO IS ONE.
The spring came, but brought little change in the condition of my uncle.
In the month of May, Dr. Southwell advised our taking him abroad. When we
proposed it to him, he passed his hand wearily over his forehead, as if
he felt something wrong there, and gave us no reply. We made our
preparations, and when the day arrived, he did not object to go.
We were an odd party: John and I, bachelor and spinster; my uncle, a
silent, moody man, who did whatever we asked him; and the still,
open-eyed Martha Moon, who, I sometimes think, understood more about it
all than any of us. I could talk a little French, John a good deal of
German. When we got to Paris, we found my uncle considerably at home
there. When he cared to speak, he spoke like a native, and was never at a
loss for word or phrase.
It was he, indeed, who took us to a quiet little hotel he knew; and when
we were comfortably settled in it, he began to take the lead in all our
plans. By degrees he assumed the care and guidance of the whole party;
and so well did he carry out what he had silently, perhaps almost
unconsciously undertaken, that we conceived the greatest hopes of the
result to himself. A mind might lie quiescent so long as it was
ministered to, and hedged from cares and duties, but wake up when
something was required of it! No one would have thought anything amiss
with my uncle, that heard him giving his orders for the day, or acting
cicerone to the little company--there for his sake, though he did not
know it.
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