It was Uncle Peter who told me, year after year, the old stories and legends of the Standishes.

And he was always happy--always happy and glad and seeing nothing but sunshine though he hadn't stood on his feet for nearly sixty years.

And my Uncle Peter died when I was thirteen, five days before my birthday came.

I think he must have been to me what your father was to you." He nodded.

There was something that was not the hardness of rock in his face now, and John Graham seemed to have faded away.
"I was left, then, alone with my Grandfather Standish," she went on.