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CHAPTER XIII.
UNCLE NAT.
IT was a glorious moonlight night, and, like gleams of burnished
silver, the moonbeams flashed from the lofty domes and minarets of
Calcutta, or shone like sparkling gems on the sleeping waters of
the bay. It was a night when the Hindoo lover told his tale to the
dusky maiden at his side, and the soldier, wearing the scarlet
uniform, talked to his blue-eyed bride of the home across the
waters, which she had left to be with him.
On this night, too, an old man in his silent room, sat thinking of
_his_ home far beyond the shores of "Merrie England." Near
him lay a letter, Eugenia's letter, which was just received. He
had not opened it yet, for the sight of it had carried him back
across the Atlantic wave, and again he saw, in fancy, the granite
hills which had girded his childhood's home--the rock where he had
played--the tree where he had carved his name, and the rushing
mountain stream, which ran so swiftly past the red house in the
valley--the home where he was born, and where had come to him the
heart grief which had made him the strange, eccentric being he
was.
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