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Title: Uncle William

Author: Jennette Lee

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4634]
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[This file was first posted on February 20, 2002]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee
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                            UNCLE WILLIAM
                      THE MAN WHO WAS SHIF'LESS

                                  BY

                             JENNETTE LEE



    TO GERALD STANLEY LEE

   "Let him sing to me
    Who sees the watching of the stars above the day,
    Who hears the singing of the sunrise
    On its way
    Through all the night.

    * * * * *

    Let him sing to me
    Who is the sky-voice, the thunder-lover,
    Who hears above the winds' fast flying shrouds
    The drifted darkness, the heavenly strife,

    The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds
    Of his own life."





                            UNCLE WILLIAM



                                  I

"Yes, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less," said William
Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers
skilfully into place by their one suspender.

His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor
at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that
he failed to find in his color-box.

William Benslow watched him patiently. "Kind o' ticklish business,
ain't it?" he said.

The artist admitted that it was.

"I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter," said the old man,
readjusting his legs. "It's settin'-work, and that's good; but you
have to keep at it steady-like--keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-
daubin' and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it.
Sailin' 's more in my line," he added, scanning the horizon. "You have
to step lively when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when
you can set and look and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o'
herself, with the water and the sky all round you. I've been thankful
a good many times the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me."

The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on
the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered
maroon sail, anchored below. "There's not much money in it?" he
suggested.

"Money? Dunno's there is," returned the other. "You don't reely need
money if you're a sailor."

"No, I suppose not--no more than an artist."

"Don't you need money, either?" The old man spoke with cordial
interest.

"Well, occasionally--not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and
colors--"

The old man nodded. "Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I
dye mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk--"

The artist laughed out. "All right, Uncle William, all right," he
said. "You teach me to trust in the Lord and I'll teach you art. You
see that color out there,--deep green like shadowed grass--"

The old man nodded. "I've seen that a good many times," he said.
"Cur'us, ain't it?--just the color of lobsters when you haul 'em."

The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. "Hum-m!" he
said under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh
color rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas.
"Ah-h!" he said, again under his breath. It held a note of
satisfaction.

Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the
sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising
and falling across the bay. "Putty good," he said approvingly. "You've
got it just about the way it looks--"

"Just about," assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. "Just
about. Thank you."

Uncle William nodded. "Cur'us, ain't it? there's a lot in the way you
see a thing."

"There certainly is," said the painter. His brush moved in swift
strokes across the canvas. "There certainly is. I've been studying
that water for two hours. I never thought of lobsters." He laughed
happily.

Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. "That's nateral enough,"
he said kindly. "You hain't been seein' it every day for sixty year,
the way I hev." He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height.

"What's the good of being an artist if I can't see things that you
can't?" demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.

"Well, what /is/ the use? I dunno; do you?" said Uncle William,
genially. "I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've
been sailin'," he went on--"how them artists come up here summer after
summer makin' picters,--putty poor, most on 'em,--and what's the use?
I can see better ones settin' out there in my boat, any day.--Not but
that's better'n some," he added politely, indicating the half-finished
canvas.

The young man laughed. "Thanks to you," he said. "Come on in and make
a chowder. It's too late to do any more to-day--and that's enough." He
glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of
green. He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and
brushes.

Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it
apart and folding it with quick skill.

The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. "All right," he said, "go
ahead."

Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the
artist drew it back quickly. "No, no," he said. "You'd rub it off."

"Like enough," returned the old man, placidly. "I gen'ally do get in a
muss when there's fresh paint around. But I don't mind my clothes.
They're ust to it--same as yourn."

The young man laughed anxiously. "I wouldn't risk it," he said. "Come
on."

They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with
bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched
on its edge.



                                  II

The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. "Go right along
in," he said. "I'll be there 's soon as I've got an armful of wood."

The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows
and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire
and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a
sudden sense of crude comfort.

The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked
about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and
came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.

She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately
step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm,
imperious gaze.

"All right, Juno," he said. "He'll be along in a minute. Don't you
worry."

She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her
face gravely and slowly.

The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon the
big leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of
welcome.

Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes.
He reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her
clear of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of
satisfaction, she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red
softness.

He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze
swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and
poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. "That's all right,"
he said. "She'll heat up quick." He thrust in some light sticks and
pushed forward the kettle. "Now, if you'll reach into that box behind
you and get the potatoes," he said, "I'll do the rest of the fixin's."

He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them
to his blue eyes with a little frown. "They're a terrible bother," he
said, squinting through them and readjusting them. "But I don't dare
resk it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it
was the salt--same shape. The chowder /was/ hot." He chuckled. "I can
see a boat a mile off," he said, lifting the basket of clams to the
sink, "but a pepper-box two feet's beyond me." He stood at the sink,
rubbing the clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head,
outlined against the window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that
stretched below, far as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of
hair framed his shining baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin,
losing themselves in the vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor
fashion, about his throat.

Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out
with careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in
spite of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced
toward the window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. "Time
to set my light," he said. He lighted a ship's lantern and placed it
carefully in the window.

The artist watched him with amused eyes. "You waste a lot of oil on
the government, Uncle William," he said laughingly. "Why don't you
apply for a salary?"

Uncle William smiled genially. "Well, I s'pose the guvernment would
say the' wa'n't any reel need for a light here. And I don't s'pose
the' is, /myself/--not any /reel/ need. But it's a comfort. The boys
like to see it, comin' in at night. They've sailed by it a good many
year now, and I reckon they'd miss it. It's cur'us how you do miss a
thing that's a comfort--more'n you do one 't you reely /need/
sometimes." He lighted the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam
above, and surveyed the table. He drew up his chair. "Well, it's
ready," he said, "such as it is."

"That's all airs, Uncle William," said the young man, drawing up. "You
know it's fit for a king."

"Yes, it's good," said the old man, beaming on him. "I've thought a
good many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder." His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing
gross in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed
the big spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-
gray bridge from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.

"There was a man up here to Arichat one summer," he said, chewing
slowly, "that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me
go back home with him."

The artist smiled. "Just to make chowder for him?"

The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if
he could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel.
He offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him--said he'd give
me five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled. "I told him I
wouldn't go for a thousand--not for two thousand," he said
emphatically. "Why, I don't s'pose there's money enough in New York to
tempt me to live there.

"Have you been there?"

"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there
and Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place," he said suddenly.

"I believe you're right," admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. "You /do/ feel shut in
--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you."

"That's what I meant," he said, quickly. "I can't stan' so many
folks."

"You're not much crowded here." The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.

The old man listened a minute. "I shall have to go down and reef her
down," he said thoughtfully. "It's goin' to blow."

"I should say it /is/ blowing," said the young man.

"Not yet," returned Uncle William. "You'll hear it blow afore mornin'
if you stay awake to listen--though it won't sound so loud up the
shore where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and
nobody on either side of you--for half a mile." A kind of mellow
enthusiasm held the tone.

The young man smiled. "You /are/ a hermit. Suppose somebody should
build next you?"

"They can't."

"Why not?"

"I own it."

"A mile?"

The old man nodded. "Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But
where anybody could build I own." He said it almost exultantly. "I
guess maybe I'm part Indian." He smiled apologetically. "I can't seem
to breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once,
how I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought
it. I'm what they call around here 'land-poor.'" He said it with
satisfaction. "I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat,
and it's 's much as I can do to keep the /Jennie/ patched up and
going. But I'm comfortable. I don't really want for anything."

"Yes, you're comfortable." The young man glanced about the snug room.

"There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me." He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I'm goin' to
make things snug and put down the other anchor," he said. "You stay
till I come back and we'll have suthin' hot."

He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its
hook, went out into the night.

Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It
glowed. The cat purred in its depths.



                                 III

The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The
face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from
the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and
the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been
leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and
spare, with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind.
. . . How she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched
aloft in the gale!

A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted
itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path.
With a snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door
opened on Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand
had gone out. His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came
across to the fire, shaking it off.

"It's goin' to blow all right," he said, nodding to the artist.

"And it's raining. You're wet."

"Well, not /wet/, so to speak." He took off his hat, shaking it
lightly over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot
drops. Juno lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man
hung his hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated
himself by the stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang
up. The artist leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.

"You were gone a good while," he said. The locket had slipped from his
fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he
bent to the fire.

The old man nodded. "I see the /Andrew Halloran/ had dragged her
anchor a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took
quite a spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed
away for'ard somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin'
putty bad. I found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I
left. I reckon she'll hold."

"Won't he be down himself to look after her?"

"Mebbe not. It's a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He
knows I keep an eye out for her.

"Why doesn't he anchor up there," said the artist, "near by?"

The old man shook his head. "He's a kind o' set man, Andy is--part
Irish and part Scotch. He al'ays /has/ anchored here and I reckon he
al'ays /will/. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome
to."

"It was his land, then?"

"Most on it--I do' know as he /wanted/ to sell reely, but I offered
him more'n he could stan'. He's a little near--Andy is." He chuckled.

The artist laughed out. "So he keeps the anchorage and right of way
and you look after his boat. I don't see but he's fairly well fixed."

"Yes, he's putty well fixed," said the old man, slowly. "'S fur as
/this/ world's goods go Andy is comf'tably provided for." His eyes
twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. "We've been
neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys," he said. "I guess
there ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same
about me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to
look after--and know, like as not, in the mornin' he'll come down,
cussin' and swearin' 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right." He peered
into the kettle on the stove. "'Most empty." He filled it from the
pail by the sink, and resumed his seat, stretching his great legs
comfortably. Juno sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his
knee. He tumbled her a little, in rough affection, and rubbed his big
fingers in her neck. She purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift
strokes in the heavy cloth. He watched her benignly, a kind of
detached humor in his eyes. "Wimmen folks is a good deal alike," he
remarked dryly. "They like to be comf'tabul."

"Some of them," assented the artist.

The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. "So-o?" he said.

The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand
touched it. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Why, nuthin', nuthin'," said Uncle William, soothingly. "Only I
thought you was occupied with art and so on--"?

"I am."

Uncle William said nothing.

Presently the artist leaned forward. "Do you want to see her?" he
said. He was holding it out.

Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the
spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he
reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had
gone from his face. It was full of gentleness.

Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.

The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The
old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to
hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.

Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a
satisfied look. "You've had a good deal more sense'n I was afraid
you'd have," he said dryly.

The artist woke. "You can't tell--from that." He held out his hand.

Uncle William gave it up, slowly. "I can tell more'n you'd think,
perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike--some ways a good deal alike.
I've lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds
of doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be." He
chuckled softly. "Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,"--he
waved his hand,--"but she's big and she's fresh--salt, too--and she
makes your heart big just to look at her--the way it ought to, I
reckon. There's things about her I don't know," he nodded toward the
picture. "She may not go to church and I don't doubt but what she has
tantrums, but she's better'n we be, and she-- What did you say her
name was?"

"Sergia Lvova."

"Sergia Lvova," repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease.
"That's a cur'us name. I've heard suthin' like it, somewhere--"

"She's Russian."

"Russian--jest so! I might'n' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up
to St. Petersburg. Now there's a country that don't hev breathin'
space. She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her--all
hemmed in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the
earth to get to her--half choked afore you fairly get there. Yes, I
sailed there once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the
Baltic and the Gulf of Finland, just edging along--" He held out his
hand again for the locket, and studied it carefully. "Russian, is she?
I might 'a' known it," he said nodding. "She's the sort--same look--
eager and kind o' waitin'." He looked up. "How'd you come to know her?
You been there?"

"In Russia? No. She's not there now. She's in New York. She lives
there."

"Is that so? Poor thing!" Uncle William looked at the pictured face
with compassion.

The artist smiled. "Oh, it's not so bad. She's happy."

"Yes, she's happy. I can see that easy enough. She's the kind that's
goin' to be happy." He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes. "You
couldn't put her anywheres she wouldn't sing--"

"She /does/ sing. How did you know?"

Uncle William's eyes twinkled to the boyish face. "Well, I didn't
/know/ it--not jest that way. I didn't know as she sung songs on a
platform, dressed up, like I've heard 'em. What I meant was, her heart
kind o' bubbles and sings--"

"Yes"--the artist leaned forward--"that is Sergia. It's the way she
is. She doesn't sing in public. But her voice"--his eyes grew dark--
"it makes you want to laugh and cry. It's like the wind and the sun
shining--" He broke off, listening.

The old man's eyes dwelt on him kindly. "She's with her folks, is
she?"

He roused himself. "She hasn't any. They all died over there--her
father and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no
one. She teaches music--piano and violin--night and day. Sometimes she
gives a recital with her pupils--and she has me." He laughed a little
bitterly. "It isn't an exciting life."

"I dunno's I'd say jest that," said Uncle William, slowly. "It ain't
exactly the things that happen--" He broke off, looking at something
far away. "Why, I've had things happen to me--shipwreck, you know--
winds a-blowin' and sousin' the deck--and a-gettin' out the boats and
yellin' and shoutin'-- Seems 's if it ought to 'a' been excitin'. But
Lord! 'twa'n't nuthin' to what I've felt other times--times when it
was all still-like on the island here--and big--so's 't you kind o'
hear suthin' comin' to ye over the water. Why, some days it's been
so's I'd feel's if I'd /bust/ if I didn't do suthin'--suthin' to let
off steam."

The young man nodded. "You ought to be an artist. That's the way they
feel--some of them."

Uncle William beamed on him. "You don't say so! Must be kind o' hard
work, settin' still and doin' art when you feel like that. I gen'ally
go clammin', or suthin'."

The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the
locket.

But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. "Things happen
to /her/--every day," he said. "You can see that, plain enough. She
don't hev to be most drowned to hev feelin's." He looked up. "When you
goin' to be married?"

"Not till we can afford it--years." The tone was somber.

Uncle William shook his head. "Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr.
Woodworth!" He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles
again, beaming beneath them. "Seems to me," he said slowly, studying
the fire--"seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off--
soon's I got back."

"What would you live on?" said the artist.

Uncle William waited. "There's resk," he said at last--"there's resk
in it. But there's resk in 'most everything that tastes good. I meant
to get married once," he said after a pause. "I didn't. I guess it's
about the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good
enough for her." He looked about the quaint room. "'T wa'n't,
neither," he added with conviction. "But she'd 'a' rather come--I
didn't know it then," he said gently.

The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.

"If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner," went on the old
man. "I didn't see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all
for a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about
that time she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I
hadn't the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em
sooner, bein' happy. You learn jest about the same bein' happy as you
do bein' miserable--only you learn it quicker."

"I can't give up my art," said the young man. He was looking at Uncle
William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind.
"You don't allow for art," he said.

"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I
reckon." He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.

The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists
have said," he commented.

Uncle William nodded. "Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had
sixty year of livin', off and on."

"But you'll die poor," said the artist, with a glance about the little
room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his
curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways.
"You'll die poor if you don't look out," he said again.

"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make
my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He
eyed the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them glasses and we'll
mix a little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to
bed."

The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He
glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You
couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path.
I'll jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate
bed; I've slep' on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin'
you'll be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that
biggest glass and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--
and a teaspoon. We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here."

Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the
fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the
wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.

Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat
through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house
creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound
of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the
roof and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.

About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through the
crack of the door. "You can go to sleep all right, now," he said
soothingly. "There wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney,
anyhow, and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'."



                                  IV

The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by,
seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few
minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing
monotonously. Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats
bobbing and pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of
work. The summer was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the
big storm--he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over
things,--"The light that never was on sea or land," he called it,--and
he had worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as
Uncle William saw them. Through his eyes, he painted them. They took
on color and bigness--simplicity. "They will call it my third style,"
said the artist, smiling, as he worked. "They ought to call it the
Uncle William style. I didn't do it--I shall never do it again," and
he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.
To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things
he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he
said, nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he
said indifferently.

The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"

"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money
stan'in' with your hands in your pockets."

"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove
the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled
them merrily.

"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife
toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."

"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The tone held
respectful interest.

The man looked at him more tolerantly. "Too fond of settin'."

The artist nodded. "I'm afraid he is."

"An' then he's al'ays a-givin'--a little here and a little there. Why,
what Willum Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him."

"Yes?"

"Yep. I don't s'pose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord
knows! And then he's foolish--plumb foolish." He rested his arms on
his legs, leaning forward. How much d'you s'pose he give me for that
land--from here to my house?" He pointed up the coast.

The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It
glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky.
"I haven't the least idea," he said slowly.

"Well, you won't believe it when I tell you;--nobody'd believe it. He
paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain't wuth
fifty."

The artist smiled at him genially. "Well--he's satisfied."

"But it ain't right," said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his
fish. "It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool."

"I think I'll go for a sail," said the artist.

The other glanced at the horizon. "It's going to storm," he said
indifferently.

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Ye better not go."

"Think not?" He looked again at the harbor. "It's my last chance for a
sail--I'll watch out."

"All right. 'T ain't my business," said the man. He went on slitting
fish.



The harbor held a still light--ominously--grey with a tinge of yellow
in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a
telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and
swept the bay with it. The grey stillness deepened.

On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle
William approached he grunted stiffly. "She's off the island," he
said. He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.

Uncle William's telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat
hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.

The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing
to one side. "Fool to go out--I told him it was coming."

The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. "I o't to
'a' kept an eye on him," he said humbly. "I didn't jest sense he was
goin'. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixin' a batch of
biscuit and kind o' thinkin' to myself. When I looked up he wa'n't
there." He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket.
"I'll hev to go after him," he said.

The other looked up quickly. "How'll you go?"

Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor.
"I'll take /her/," he said.

The man laughed shortly. "The /Andrew Halloran/? I guess not!" He shut
his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. "I don't trust her--not
in such a storm as that's going to be." He waved his arm toward the
harbor. The greyness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green
touches, heavy and clear--a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow
light the man's face stood out tragically. "I won't resk her," he
cried.

"You'll hev to, Andrew." Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory
that was beached near by. "Jump in," he said.

The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his
side. "Don't you make me go, William," he said pacifically. "You can
take the boat in welcome, but don't take /me/. It's too much resk!"

"It's al'ays a resk to do your duty," said Uncle William. "Jump in. I
can't stand talkin'." An edge of impatience grazed the words.

The man stepped in and seized the oars. "I'll help get her off," he
said, "but I won't go."

In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's

face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. "I guess
you'll go, Andrew," he said; "you wouldn't want a man drowned right at
your door-yard."

"You can't live in it," said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light.
Far to the east a boat crawled against it. "It'll strike in five
minutes," he said.

"Like enough," said Uncle William--"like enough. Easy there!" He
seized the stern of the /Andrew Halloran/ and sprang on board. They
worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a
single reef,--making it fast. "All she'll stan'," said Uncle William.
He turned to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. "If she's
going out, I take her," he said.

"You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy," said Uncle
William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with
cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The
boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the
murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then,
with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in
sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed
them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer,
closer--hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them, the water
flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a
second they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye
could reach. Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. "Hold her
tight, Andy," he yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and
his back strained to it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed
flat to the big skull, were mere lines. "Hold her tight! Make fast!"
he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened
to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were
all about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each

wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the
bottom of the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the
storm was gone. With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its
black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle,
breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east.
Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length,
mopping off the wet. "There she is!" he said in a deep voice. "Let her
out, Andy."

With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef
and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew
past. But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it
towered, monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller.
"We'll make it, Andy," he said quietly. "We'll make it yet if the
/Jennie/ holds out--" Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the
tiller, his eyes glued fast.

"Luff her," he cried. "She's gone-- Luff her, I tell you!" He sprang
back, jamming the tiller from him. "Let her out, Andy, every inch!"

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its
touch. She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight,
to the race.

Across the water something bobbed--black, uncertain.

"Look sharp, Andy," said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the
chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk,
in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on
it. "Yep," he said solemnly, "he's held on--he's there!"

"Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don't lose her." Uncle William's big arms
strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she
came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed
silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a
moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he
looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man's
head, round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black
above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon--thick and
nebulous and dizzy.

"Roll him over, Andy," said Uncle William, "roll him over. He's
shipped too much."



                                  V

Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine
deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line
of smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was
fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work.

Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of
nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he
glanced at the line of smoke. "/He's/ gone," he said, jerking his
thumb toward it.

"He's gone," assented Uncle William, cheerfully.

Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him,
spreading it along the beach. "He's left /you/ poorer'n he found you,"
he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying
knots and straightening meshes.

"I dunno 'bout that," said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff
of smoke kindly.

"You kep' him a good deal, off and on. He must 'a' e't considerable,"
said Andrew. "And now he's up and lost your boat for you." He glanced
complacently at the /Andrew Halloran/ swinging at anchor. "You'll
never see /her/ again," he said. He gave a final toss to the net.

"Mebbe not," said Uncle William. "Mebbe not." His eyes were on the
horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky
dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William's eyes
returned to his nets.

"How you going to get along 'bout a bout?" asked Andrew, carelessly.

Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. "I shouldn't need
her much more this fall, anyways," he said. "An' come spring, I'll get
another. I've been needin' a new boat a good while."

Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the /Andrew
Halloran/. "Got the money?" he asked.

"Well, not /got/ it, so to speak," said Uncle William, "but I reckon I
shall have it when the time comes."

Andrew's face lightened a little. "What you countin' on?" he said.

Uncle William considered. "There's the fish. Gunnion hain't settled
with me yet for my fish."

Andrew nodded. "Seventy-five dollars."

"And I've got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin'-house--"

Andrew's small eyes squinted knowingly. "Out o' season?"

Uncle William returned the look benignly. "We didn't date the 'count--
just lumped 'em, so much a catch; saves trouble."

Andrew chuckled. "I've saved trouble that way myself." He made a rough
calculation. "It won't make a hunderd, all told. How you goin' to get
the rest?"

"Mebbe I shall borrow it," said Uncle William. He looked serenely at
the sky. "Like enough /he'll/ send a little suthin'," he added.

"Like enough!" said Andrew.

"He mentioned it," said Uncle William.

"He's gone," said Andrew. He gave a light /p-f-f/ with his lips and
screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.

Uncle William smiled. "You don't have faith, Andy," he said
reproachfully. "Folks do do things, a good many times--things that
they say they will. You o't to have faith."

Andrew snuffed. "When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev
suthin' to stick the pin into," he said scornfully.

They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-
lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the water
and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.

Andrew's eyes rested impassively on their gambols. "Wuthless
critters," he said.

Uncle William's face softened as he watched them. "I kind o' like to
see 'em, Andy--up and down and bobbin' and sloppin' and scramblin';
you never know /where/ they'll come up next."

"Don't need to," grumbled Andy. "Can't eat the blamed things--nor wear
'em. I tell you, Willum,"--he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,--
"I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things."

"Mebbe I do," said William, humbly.

"This one, now--this painter fellow." Andrew gave a wave of his hand
that condensed scorn. "What'd you get out o' him, a-gabblin' and
sailin' all summer?"

"I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words," said William,
thoughtfully, "what I /did/ get out o' him."

"Ump! I guess you couldn't--nor anybody else. When he sends you
anything for that boat o' yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?"

"Why, yes, Andy, I'll let you know if you want me to. I'll be reel
pleased to let you know," said Uncle William.



                                  VI

It was Indian summer. Uncle William was mending his chimney. He had
built a platform to work on. Another man would have clung to the
sloping roof while he laid the bricks and spread the mortar. But Uncle
William had constructed an elaborate platform with plenty of room for
bricks and the pail of mortar, and space in which to stretch his great
legs. It was a comfortable place to sit and look out over Arichat
harbor. Andy, who had watched the preparations with scornful eye, had
suggested an arm-chair and cushion.

"I like to be comf'tabul," assented Uncle William. "I know I do. I
don't like to work none too well, anyhow. Might as well be comf'tabul
if you can."

The platform was comfortable. Even Andy admitted that, when Uncle
William persuaded him to climb up one day, on the pretext of advising
whether the row of bricks below the roof line would hold. It was a
clear, warm day, with little clouds floating lightly, as in summer.
Andy had climbed the ladder grumbling.

"Nice place to see," suggested Uncle William.

Andy peered down the chimney hole. "You will have to take off the top
row all around," he said resentfully.

"Ye think so, do ye? I kind o' thought so myself. They seemed sort o'
tottery. But I thought mebbe they'd hold. Sit down, Andy, sit down."
He pushed the pail of mortar a little to one side to make room.

Andy edged away. "Can't stop," he said. He was searching with his foot
for the ladder.

"What you going to do?" demanded Uncle William.

Andy glanced at the sky. "I'm going to take in the /Andrew Halloran/."
He was already on his way down the ladder.

Uncle William pursued him, peering over. "You'll have to have me to
help ye, Andy. Can't you jest wait till to-morrow--till I get my
chimbley done?"

"You've been a month now," said Andy. He was glowering at the bay and
the little boat bobbing below.

"I know it, Andy, I know it." Uncle William was descending the ladder
with slow care. "But I don't want my mortar to freeze, and I'm kind o'
'fraid of its comin' off cold again to-night. I was jest goin' to
begin to hurry up. I was goin' to begin to-day."

"I can get along without you," said Andrew, doggedly.

"Why, no, you can't, Andy. How you goin' to haul her up?" Uncle
William spoke reproachfully.

Andy moved away. "I can do it, I guess." He was mumbling it to his
teeth. "I don't need anybody's help."

With a sigh and a look of affection at the platform and the pail and
the blue sky above, Uncle William followed him down the rocky path.

They worked busily all the morning, towing in the /Andrew Halloran/,
cleaning her up and stowing away tackle, making her ready for the
winter.

In the afternoon Uncle William mounted the roof again. His face, under
its vast calm, wore a look of resolve. He looked thoughtfully down the
chimney hole. Then he sat down on the platform and took up his trowel.
He balanced it on his palm and looked at the pile of bricks. His gaze
wandered to the sky. It swept the bay and came back across the moors.
A look of soft happiness filled it; the thin edges of resolve melted
before it. "Best kind of weather," murmured Uncle William, "best
kind--" His eye fell on the pile of bricks and he took up one, looking
at it affectionately. He laid it in place and patted down the mortar,
rumbling to himself.

When Andy came by, half an hour later, three bricks were in place.
Uncle William nodded to him affably. "Where goin', Andy?"

"How much you got done?" demanded Andy.

Uncle William looked at it thoughtfully. "Well, there's quite a piece.
Comin' up?" he said hopefully.

"It don't show any."

"No, it don't show much--yet. It's kind of down below.--Think we're
goin' to have a change?" The tone was full of hopeful interest.

Andy nodded. "Freeze inside of twenty-four hours."

Uncle William scanned the horizon.

"When you calculatin' to finish?" asked Andy.

"Well, I was thinkin' of finishin' to-night."

Andy's gaze sought the sun.

Uncle William took up another brick.

Andy seated himself on a rock. He had done a good day's work. His
conscience was clear; and then William worked better when Andy was
around, and Andy took pride in it. "Where'd you get your bricks?" he
asked.

Uncle William looked at the one in his hand. "I wheeled them over from
the Bodet cellar-place. The' 's quite a pile left there yet."

"They all good?"

"Putty good." Uncle William was working thoughtfully. "We've set by
them bricks a good many times, Andy."

"Yep."

"You remember the things she used to give us to eat?"

Andy swung about. "Who give us?"

"Old Mis' Bodet."

Andy's eye lighted. "So she did. I'd forgot all about 'em."

Uncle William nodded. "There was a kind of tart she used to make--"

Andy broke in. A look of genuine enthusiasm filled his eye. "I know--
that gingery, pumpkin kind--"

"That's it. And you and me and Benjy used to sit and toast our toes by
the fire and eat it--"

"He was a mean cuss," said Andy.

"Who Benjy? Why, we was al'ays fond of Benjy!" Uncle William's face
beamed over the edge of the roof. "We was fond of him, wa'n't we?"

"I wa'n't," said Andy, shortly. "He' lick a feller every chance he
got."

"Yes, that's so--I guess that's so." Uncle William was slapping on the
mortar with heavy skill. "But he did it kind o' neat, didn't he?" His
eye twinkled to his work. "'Member that time you 'borrowed' his
lobster-pot--took it up when it happened to have lobsters in it, and
kep' the lobsters--not to hev 'em waste?"

Andy's face was impassive.

"Oh, you was fond of Benjy!" Uncle William spoke cheeringly. "You've
kind o' forgot, I guess. And I set a heap o' store by him. He was jest
about our age--twelve year the summer they moved away. I cried much as
a week, off and on I should think. Couldn't seem to get ust to not
havin' him around."

"Reckon he's dead by this time?" Andy spoke hopefully. A little green
gleam had crept into his eye.

Uncle William leaned over, looking down at him reproachfully. "Now,
what makes you say that, Andy? He don't hev no more call to be dead'n
we do. We was both fond of him."

Andy stirred uneasily. "I liked him well enough, but it ain't any use
talkin' about folks that's moved away, or dead."

"Do you feel that way, Andy? Now I don't feel so." Uncle William's
gaze was following a floating cloud. "I feel as if they was kind o'
near us; not touching close, but round somewheres. Now, I wouldn't
really say Benjy Bodet was in that cloud--"

Andy stared at it suspiciously.

"He ain't really there, but it makes me feel the way he did. I used to
get up kind o' light in the mornin', 'cause I was goin' to see Benjy.
The' wa'n't ever anybody I was so fond of, except Jennie--and you,
mebbe."

Andy's gaze was looking out to sea. "You was mighty thick with that
painter chap," he said gruffly.

"That wa'n't the same,"--Uncle William spoke thoughtfully,--"not quite
the same."

The gloom in Andy's face lifted.

"I've thought about that a good many times," went on Uncle William.
"It's cur'us. You get to know folks that's a good deal nicer than your
own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and
quarreled with,--and you get to know 'em a good deal better some ways
--but they ain't the same as your own."

Andy's face had grown almost mild. "I guess that's right," he said.
"Now there's Harr'et--I've lived with Harr'et a good many year."

Uncle William nodded. "She come from Digby way, didn't she?"

"Northeast o' Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa'n't even
acquainted with her."

Uncle William chuckled.

Andy glanced at the sun. "I must be gettin' home. It's supper-time."
His gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks set above its
line gleamed red and white in the sun. "You won't get that done
to-night." The tone was not acrid. It was almost sympathetic--for
Andy.

Uncle William glanced at it placidly. "I reckon I shall. There's a
moon, you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be
quite nice up here by moonlight."

He set and watched Andy's figure down the road. Then he took up the
trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the
horizon. It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little
flames. The glow of color spread from north to south. A breeze had
sprung up and ruffled the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to
work. "Andy's right--it's goin' to change."

He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It
shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little
house. By its light William put on the finishing touches.



                                 VII

The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the
chimney was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a
stinging keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it.
One almost listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long
nights. Little snow fell, and it was soon dispersed--whirled away on
the fierce blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and
forth between woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A
roaring fire warmed the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its
depths. The pile of wood in the shed lowered fast, and the pile of
money hoarded behind the loose brick in the chimney lowered with it--
the money faster than the wood, perhaps. There was a widow with three
children, a mile down the shore. Her husband had been drowned the year
before, and there was no brick loose in her chimney to look behind as
the woodpile diminished. Old Grandma Gruchy, too, who had outlived all
her men folks and at ninety-three was still tough and hearty, had need
of things.

Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping
a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a
full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o'clock
of winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and
the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an
uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the
stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered
about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had
women folks to do for him.

As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist--sometimes gay and
full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the
letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. "He
don't seem to be makin' much money," he would say from time to time.
The letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle.
"He's got another done," Uncle William would respond: "that makes
three; that's putty good." Andy had ceased to ask about the money for
the boat--when it was coming. He seemed to have accepted the fact that
there would never be any, as placidly as William himself. If there was
dawning in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the
time came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that
surveyed Uncle William's movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now
and then Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of
adjusting a tin on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the
coffee-pot. Sometimes Uncle William followed the advice. It generally
failed to work.

It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a
letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and
placed them on his nose with a genial smile.

Andy had not relinquished the letter. "I can read it for ye," he
volunteered.

"I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye." Uncle William reached
out a hand for it.

Andy's fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been
allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle
William's spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle
William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of
news.

Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. "Now,
that's good. He's finished up five on 'em."

"Five what?"

"Picters," responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. "There's
one of my house,"--lofty pride held the voice,--"and one of the cove
down below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the
hill, this side of your place. Now, that's quite a nice lot, ain't

it?"

"What's he going to do with 'em," asked Andy.

"There's a kind of exhibit goin' on." Uncle William consulted the
letter. "'The Exhibition of American Artists'--suthin' like a fair, I
take it. And he's goin' to send 'em."

"Thinks he'll take a prize, I s'pose." Andy's tone held fine
scepticism.

"Well, I dunno. He don't say nuthin' about a prize. He does kind o'
hint that he'll be sendin' me suthin' pretty soon. I guess likely
there'll be prizes. He o't to take one if there is. He made fust-rate
picters, fust-rate--"

"The whole lot wa'n't wuth the /Jennie/." Andy spoke with sharp
jealousy.

"Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?"

"/I/ don't care," sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and
arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.

Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.

"It's your move, Andy."

Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of
the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick
fingers. "Go ahead."

Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving
calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.

"Same move you al'ays make," said Andy, contemptuously.

"Sometimes I beat that way, don't I?"

"And sometimes you don't." Andy shoved forward another piece. The
quick movement expressed scorn of dawdlers.

Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care.

Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting
his forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached
out and drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the
board.

Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him
benignantly.

Andy shifted a little in his chair. "You're going to get into
trouble," he said warningly, "if you move that way."

"Like enough, like enough. I gen'ally do. Is it my move?"

"No," growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on in
earnest. Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice
Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he
did it with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and
dashed fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head
to listen. Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped
men and placed them one side with impassive faces. The board was
clearing fast. Only seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece
with a swift flourish. He gave a little growl of triumph.

Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted
a piece and moved it cautiously.

Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. "King," he announced.

Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He
looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in
the room.

Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his
gaze.

Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A
little conscious triumph flavored the nod.

Andy shoved back from the board. "Well, why don't you take it? Take it
if you're goin' to, and don't set there cackling!"

"Why, Andy!" Uncle William moved the man mildly.

Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch.

Uncle William moved again.

Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat.

"Can't you stay to dinner, Andy?"

"No."

"I was goin' to have a little meat."

"Can't stay."

"It's stormin' putty hard."

"/I/ don't care!" He moved toward the door.

Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. "You better put
this on if ye can't stay. No use in gettin' wet through."

Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence.

Uncle William watched him benignly. "If 't was so 's 't you could
stay, we could play another after dinner--play the rubber. You beat
/me/ last time, you know." He took off the stove-lid and peered in.

Andy's eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. "When you goin' to
have dinner?" he asked.

"I was thinkin' of havin' it putty soon. I can have it right off if
you'll stay--must be 'most time." He pulled a great watch from its fob
pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked
up slowly. Then he smiled--a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the
board with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole
red room.

"Well, what time is it?" said Andy.

"It's five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you'd better stay," said
Uncle William.



                                 VIII

Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big
fingers. A touch of spring was in the air, but the /Andrew Halloran/
rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once
to look at her. Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not
heard from the artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at
the letter in his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was
a woman's handwriting.

He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious
fingers. A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the
floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it a
little bashfully and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before
him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously.
As he read, an anxious line came between his eyes. "Now, that's too
bad--sick in bed--I want to know-- Well, well! Pshaw, you needn't 'a'
done that! Of course I'll go." He picked up the bluish slip and looked
at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat surveying the
red room. He shook his head slowly. "He must be putty sick to feel
like that," he said.

He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly.


 "MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the
  artist who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you
  that he is very ill. He has not been well for two months or more,
  and for the last three weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in
  his rooms alone and there is no one to look after him. His friends
  have tried all along to have him go to a hospital, or to let them
  take care of him. But until two or three weeks ago he would have
  times of partial recovery--days when he seemed perfectly well. So
  no one has guessed how really ill he is, and they suppose now that
  he has gone away from the city to recuperate. No one, except me,
  knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked and no one
  answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort. He has
  told me about you--how good you were to him last summer--"


Uncle William looked up, perplexed. "Sho, now! What does she mean by
that? I didn't do nuthin'--nuthin' to speak of."


 "I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He
  has talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his
  illness, earlier, when the fever was on, he would call for you--
  talking and muttering in his sleep. If you could come down for a
  little while, I feel almost sure that it would give him the start
  he needs. The fever makes him distrustful of every one, but I know
  that he would see you. I am inclosing a check for the trip. It is
  really money that belongs to him--to Alan. He gave me last year a
  beautiful present--something far too expensive for him to give;
  and now that he needs the money--needs to see you--more than I
  need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging that you will come
  very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you about me. You
  will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that I shall
  see you and know you when you come.

                                       "Sincerely yours,

                                           "SERGIA LVOVA."


Uncle William nodded at the letter with a genial smile, as if he saw
the girl herself and responded to the wish. He returned the letter
with the blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket.
He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. "I couldn't take their
money, nohow," he said slowly. "I must go and see Andy. He'll help
out. He'll be reel glad to."

He rose and began to set the table, bringing out the smoked herring
and bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a
look of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping
into the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed
her bits of the herring with impartial hand. When the meal was over,
he went to the chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in
behind for the money. He counted it slowly. "Not near enough," he
said, shaking his head. "I knew there wa'n't. I must go and see Andy."

He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of
hair and tied his neckerchief anew.

He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in
silence, watching the scramble for bits. "Shoo!" said Andrew, making a
dash for a big cochin-china. "She eats a lot more 'an her share," he
grumbled, shaking out the dish. "Comin' in?"

"I've got a little suthin' to talk over with ye," said William.

"Come out behind the barn," said Andrew.

Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance,
William drew out the envelope. "I've got a letter--"

Andy eyed it. "From that painter chap?"

"Well, not exactly. But it's about him. He's in a good deal of
trouble--"

"What's he been doin'?" demanded Andy.

"He's been bein' sick," said William, reproachfully.

"Oh!" Andy's face fell.

"He's sick now," went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its
envelope. "He's feeling putty bad."

"What's the matter of him?" said Andy, gruffly.

Uncle William studied the letter.

"It's a kind o' fever--I guess--intermittent. Runs for a while, then
lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once--don't you
remember?--the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar?
'Member how sick we felt?" Uncle William looked at him mildly.

Andy's eye was fixed on the bay. "How d' you know it's the same?" he

said.

"Well, I don't /know/ it's the same--not just the same, but she
says--"

"/Who/ says?" Andy whirled about.

"Why, /she/ says--Sergia says.-- Didn't I jest tell you, Andy?"

"You didn't tell me nuthin'," said Andy. He had returned to the bay.

"She is his--she is goin' to marry him," said William.

"Huh!"

There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel.
"When they goin' to be married?" he said at last.

Uncle William shook his head. "That's jest it, Andy. They're in a heap
o' trouble."

Andy stirred uneasily. "What'd she write to /you/ for?"

"I'm comin' to that--if you'll give me time. She thought mebbe I could
help--"

Andy moved a little away. "You hain't got the means," he said
decisively.

"No"--the tone was soothing--"but I can get it, mebbe. She wants me to
come down."

"To New York? /You!/" Andy looked at him.

William returned the look apologetically. "Does sound ridiculous,
don't it, Andy? I shouldn't ever 'a' thought of the thing myself, but
she says he kind o' needs me. Keeps askin' for me when the fever is
on, and don't seem to get along much when it lets up. She kind o'
thinks if I was there, it would help him to brace up, somehow, a
little."

Andy made no response. The green light was dawning far down in his
eye.

Uncle William watched it. "It's jest a sick man's fancy, like enough."

"When you goin'?" said Andy.

"I though 'bout day after to-morrow."

"It'll cost a heap."

"I know it."

"You've got it, I s'pose?" indifferently.

"Some of it," said William.

Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the
bench.

Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. "I was
goin' to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy."

Andy wriggled a little. "You don't /hev/ to go," he said feebly.

"If he needs me, I'll have to. I ain't ever been needed much--livin'
alone so. You don't know how 't is. You have somebody to need you.
Harriet needs you--"

"Lord, yes, Harr'et needs me. Don't doubt she needs me this minute--
pail o' water or suthin'." Andrew chuckled gloomily.

"And you hev your chickens, too." Uncle William fixed his glance
placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner,
cocking a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully.
"When a man's alone, there ain't much he can do for folks," he said
slowly, "except feed Juno night and mornin',--and she catches so many
mice it ain't really wuth while. Now a hen needs to be fed."

"Guess they do," grumbled Andy.

"And a cow," went on Uncle William, "but there--" he checked himself.
"What am I talkin' about? How'd I ever keep a cow? What'd I do with
the milk? I couldn't eat a whole cowful." He sat gazing with far-off
eyes at the glimpse of blue water.

Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry grass.

William turned to him suddenly. "We'll go down and draw out the money
to-morrow morning," he said.

Andy chewed anxiously. "I dunno as I can let you have it," he
protested.

"Oh, yes, you'll let me. You see I /need/ it, Andy, and I'm goin' to
pay you six per cent. How much do you get at the bank? Not more'n
five, do you?"

"Four and a half," said Andy, grudgingly.

"Four and a half. Well, you see, I give you six. So there's a dollar
and a half clear gain."

Andrew's eyes narrowed to the dollar and a half and fed on it awhile.
"I shall hev to ask Harr'et," he said.

"Now, I wouldn't ask Harriet." Uncle William spoke soothingly. "She
don't agree with you and me a good many times--Harriet don't."

Andrew admitted it. He chewed awhile in silence. "You'll give me a
mortgage?" he said at last. The tone was crafty.

"On my place!" Uncle William was roused. "No, sir, I don't give
mortgages to nobody."

"Then I don't see as I can let you hev it," said Andy. "It's fair to
ask for a mortgage. What if anything should happen to ye--down there
in New York? Where'd /I/ be?" He looked at him reproachfully.

"You /would/ miss me, Andy, and I know it. I'm goin' to be careful. I
shan't take no more resks 'n I have to."

"Nor me, neither," said Andy.

"That's right, Andy, you be careful, too, while I'm gone. Why, 't
wouldn't ever be like home--to come back and not find you here."

Andy's eyes widened. "What you talkin' 'bout?" he said.

Uncle William's gaze was on him affectionately. He looked a little
puzzled. "I dunno jest what I /did/ start to say," he said
apologetically. "I was thinkin' what a store I set by you, Andy."

Andy's face softened a trifle. "Now, look here, Willum, a mortgage is
fair. It wouldn't hurt you none, nor your place--"

William shook his head. "I couldn't do it, Andy. I wouldn't reely
trust you with a mortgage. You might get scared and foreclose some day
if I couldn't pay the interest, and you'd be ashamed enough--doin' a
thing like that."

The next day Andy drew the hundred from the bank and turned it over to
William without even a note to guard his sacred rights. Andy had tried
in the night watches to formulate a note. He had selected the best,
from a row of crafty suggestions, about four o'clock. But later, as he
and William went up the road, the note dropped by the way.

Uncle William stowed the money in his pocket with a comfortable smile.
"You've done the right thing, Andy, and I shall pay you back when I
can. You'll get your interest reg'lar--six per cent."

Andy's face held a kind of subdued gloom. He mourned not as those
without hope, but with a chastened expectancy. To lend William money
had almost the fine flavor of gambling.

He saw him off the following morning, with a sense of widened
interests. He carried, moreover, an additional burden. "Remember,
Andy," Uncle William called to him as the boat moved away, "she don't
like potato, and she won't touch a mite of fish--'ceptin' herrin'."
Juno had been intrusted to him.

Andy grinned a sickly good-by. "Good-by, Willum; I'll do as well as I
can by her." He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The island
seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at home.
The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not
include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed
heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house,
thinking to shift the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had
refused sternly. "She wouldn't be comfortable, Andy. The' 's a good
deal of soap and water down to your house and she wouldn't like it.
You can run up two or three times, easy, to see she's all right. Mebbe
you'll get fond of her."

Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the
wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so
comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky
path to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When
she saw who it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as
if she always jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the
lounge and tuned her back to the room, looking out of the window and
blinking from time to time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in
the distance.

Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The
sun poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy's eyes rested on
it vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of
presence. Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over
and stood by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned
her head and blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him
pointedly. Her gaze returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his
hand to stroke her. He drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to
swear or kick something. He went out hastily, closing the door behind
him. Juno, with her immovable gaze, stared out to sea.



                                  IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The
spring warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly.
There was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of
decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal
port-smell the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely
whiffs as he watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of
horses and the shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the
worn planks and the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels
and bales.

He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--
the sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush
from the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There
are innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and
delays and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The
customs move with the swift leisure of those who live daily between
Life and the Deep Sea--without hurry and without rest.

Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made
friends with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd,
his great bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat,
heavy baby down the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that
blocked the way. He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place.
Men took him in with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and
women looked after him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced
waiting, he was the only soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at
home. He had played his part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports.
The city bubbling and calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle
William. New York was only one more foreign port, and he had touched
too many to have fear of them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-
men, who came down on their fare if you stood by your box and refused
to let it be lifted till terms were made; rum-shops and gambling-
holes, and worse, hedging the way from the wharf; soiled women
haunting one's steps, if one halted a bit or turned to the right or
left in indecision. He had talked with women of every port. They were
a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin hands about the
earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most where the
rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William knew
them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could turn a
young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face.
Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a
sailor's unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port.
He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and
cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.

"What'll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?" Uncle William
indicated the youth beside him.

The driver looked him over with keen eye. "That's all right." He moved
along on the seat to make room. "Come on, young man."

The youth climbed up with clumsy foot.

"You might know of a job," suggested Uncle William. "He looks strong
and willin'."

The man nodded back. "I'll keep an eye on him, sir." The van rumbled
away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more.

He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and
women. Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at
night, as they wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached
to them across time and gave them a sense of the goodness of life
before they turned again and slept.

If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither
and thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his
great frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them--
with the breath of winds about it--or some huge, quiet engine at sea,
making its way with throbbing power.

If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William's mind, it did not
disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it
had for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next
at hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the
ground and the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it.
If this were philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He
called it "jest livin' along."

It was ten o'clock before he reached the artist's rooms, and his rap
at the door, gentle as a woman's, brought no response. He rapped
again.

"What's wanted?" It was the querulous voice of a sick man.

Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind
him for his box.

The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the
dim light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.

Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. "There, there,"
he said soothingly. "I guess I'd lie down." He put his hands on the
young man's shoulders, pushing him back gently.

The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. "Who--
are--you?" he said. The words were a whisper.

Uncle Williams' smile deepened. "I guess ye know /me/ all right, don't
ye?"

The artist continued to stare at him. "You came through the door. It
was locked."

"Shucks, no!" said Uncle William. "'T wa'n't locked any more'n I be.
You jest forgot it."

"Did I?" The tense look broke. "I thought you had come again."

"Well, I hev."

"I don't mean that way. Sit down." He looked feebly for a chair.

Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending
forward a little. One big hand rested on the young man's wrist. "Now,
tell me all about it," he said quietly.

The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath. "Yes--
you've come," he said. "You've come."

"I've come," said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It
seemed to fill the room.

The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. "I've wanted--you."

Uncle William nodded. "Sick folks get fancies," he said.

"--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--" The voice droned
away and was still.

Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping
pulse slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to
even beats. The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a
half-smile.

Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room,
his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that
watched over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the
earth.



                                  X

In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it
as he opened his eyes. "You are not gone!"

"Gone? Land, no!" Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his
eyes and blinking a little. "I cal'ate to stay quite a spell yet." He
stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if
testing them.

Reproach filled the artist's eyes. "You've not lain down all night!"

"Didn't need to," said Uncle William. He got to his feet briskly. "I
slep' a good deal comin' down in the boat. There wa'n't a great deal
goin' on. If you've got a little water and soap handy, I reckon I
could use it."

The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back.
"Now, stay right there. You jest tell me where things be--"

He pointed to a door at the left. "You won't find it in very good
order, I'm afraid."

"Don't you mind." Uncle William had disappeared through the doorway.
"It won't bother me a mite." His voice came back sociably. "I'm
considabul ust to havin' things mussed up."

The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through
the half-open door--thumping and blowing and splashing.

Uncle William reappeared with shining face. "It seems good to hev
suthin' bigger'n a teacup to wash in," he said. "I like the hull
ocean, myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me see."

He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance.

"Oh, I'm all right--now."

"Had a fever?"

"A little--yes."

"You all alone?"

"There's a man comes in by and by. He'll clean up and get things for
me."

Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. "Jest roll over a little
mite. There--" He placed his broad hand under the thin back. "Feel
sore there? Kind o' hurts, don't it? I thought so-- There." He laid
him back gently. "You jest wait a minute." He was fumbling at the lock
that held his box.

"Are you a doctor?" The young man was watching him with half-amused
eyes.

"Well, not a doctor exactly." Uncle William had taken out a small
bottle and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. "But
I had a fever once, myself--kep' a-runnin'." He had come over to the
bedside, the bottle in his hand. "You got a doctor?"

The young man shook his head. "He will come if I send for him."

Uncle William nodded. "That's the best kind." He held out the bottle.
"I'd like to give you 'bout five on 'em."

"What are they?"

"Well, that's what I don't know, but it took about five on 'em to
break up mine." He had poured one into the palm of his hand and held
it out. It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface
pitted with black.

The young man eyed it doubtfully.

"It /don't/ look very nice," said Uncle William, "and the man that
made it never had a stitch of clothes on his back in his life; but I
guess you better take it."

The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish,
sweetish taste behind it.

Uncle William brought him a glass of water. "I know how it tastes, but
I reckon it'll do the work. Now, let's see." he stood back, surveying
the untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. "'T is kind o' cluttered
up," he said. "I'll jest make a path through." He gathered up a
handful of shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing
the spread down to hid them. The cups and glasses and scattered spoons
and knives he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them
descending into the tub with a sound of rushing water. Uncle William
returned triumphant. "I've put 'em a-soak," he explained. The table-
spread, with its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars
and neckties and books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by
the four corners, dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the
drawer firmly. "Might 's well start fresh." He replaced the spread and
stood back, surveying it proudly. "What's that door?" He pointed
across the room.

"It's your bedroom," said the artist, a little uneasily. "But I don't
believe you can get in."

Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and
looked in. He came back beaming. "The' 's quite a nice lot of room,"
he said, taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.

The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The
window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there,
but Uncle William's path was a success. The sun was coming over the
tops of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with shining
face.

"You reely needed a man around," he said. "I'm putty glad I come."

"What made you come?" asked the artist.

"What made me?" Uncle William paused, looking about him. "Where's my
spectacles? Must 'a' left 'em in there." He disappeared once more.

While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and
when he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a
cup of something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man's head,
raising it while he drank.

The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. "It's good!" he
said. He released the cup slowly.

Uncle William nodded. "I've been overhaulin' your locker a little."

"You didn't find /that/ in it." The artist motioned to the cup.

"Well--all but a drop or two," said Uncle William, setting it down. "A
drop o' suthin' hot'll make 'most anything tasty, I reckon. I'll go
out and stock up pretty soon."

A slow color had come into the artist's face. He turned it away. "I
don't need much," he said.

"No more'n a robin," said Uncle William, cheerfully; "but I can't live
on bird-seed myself. I reckon I'll lay in suthin'--two-three crackers,
mebbe, enough to make a chowder."

The young man laughed out. "I feel better," he declared.

"It's a good pill," said Uncle William. "Must be 'most time for
another." He pulled out his great watch. "Jest about." He doled out
the pill with careful hand.

The young man looked at the bottle. "You haven't many left?"

"Eight more," said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. "That
'lows for one more fever for me afore I die--I don't cal'ate to have
but one more." He looked about for his hat. "I'm goin' out a little
while," he said, settling it on his head.

"Wait a minute, Uncle William." The young man stretched out his hand.
"How did you come to know I needed you?"

Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. "Why, that was
nateral enough," he said. "When Sergia wrote me, sayin' you was
sick--"

"Sergia wrote you?" the young man had turned away his eyes. "She
should not have done it. She had no right--"

"Why not?" said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There was
something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. "You're goin' to be
married, ain't you?"

The head on the pillow turned uneasily. "No--not now."

"Why not?"

"I shall never be able to take care of her."

"Shucks!" said Uncle William. "Let her take care of you, then."

The tears of weakness came into the young man's eyes.

Uncle William's gaze was fixed on space. "You've been foolish," he
said--"turrible foolish. I don't doubt she wants to marry you this
minute."

"She shall not do it." He spoke almost fiercely.

"There, there," said Uncle William, soothingly, "I wouldn't make such
a fuss about it. Nobody's goin' to marry you 'thout you want 'em to.
You jest quiet down and go to sleep. We'll talk it over when I come
back."



                                  XI

When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look.

Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. "Feelin'
better?" he said.

"Yes."

He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him
pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his shirt-
sleeves. His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. "I've got a
chowder going'," he said. "You take another pill and then you'll be
about ready to eat some of it, when it's done."

"Can I eat chowder?" The tone was dubious, but meek.

"You've got all your teeth, hain't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I guess you can eat it."

"I haven't been eating much."

"I shouldn't think you had." Uncle William spoke dryly. "You needn't
be a mite afraid o' one o' my chowders. A baby could eat 'em, if it
had got its teeth."

The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but
Uncle William refused him sternly. "You jest wait awhile," he said,
bearing away the empty plate. "There ain't more'n enough for a
comfortable dish for me. You don't want to eat it all, do you?"

"No," said the artist, flushing.

"I thought not." It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion,
and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of the
great jaw as it went slowly back and forth.

When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William
sat by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the
bed as the artist stirred. "You've had a good long sleep." He laid a
hand on the moist forehead. "That's good. Fever's gone."

"It will come back. It always does." There was anxious dread in the
tone.

"It won't this time." Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. "I know
how you feel--kind o' scared to believe anything--anything that's
good."

The artist smiled. "/You/ never felt that way!"

"Jest that way," said Uncle William. "I didn't /want/ to believe I
wa'n't al'ays goin' to be sick. I kep' kind o' thinkin' I'd rather be
sick'n not--jest as if the devil had me."

"Yes"--the young man spoke almost eagerly--"it's the way I've been!
Only I didn't know it till you said so."

"The' 's a good many things we don't know--not jest exactly know--till
somebody says 'em."

They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.

"I've done some queer things," said the artist.

"Like enough." Uncle William did not ask what they were.

"They begin to look foolish." He turned his head a little.

"Do you good--best thing in the world."

"I don't see how I /could/." The tone was uneasy. "I must have been
beastly to her."

Uncle William said nothing.

"She didn't tell you?" The artist was looking at him.

"She? Lord, no! women don't tell anything you've done to 'em--not if
it's anything bad."

"I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept
coming back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take
care of me." He was not looking at Uncle William.

"And you wouldn't let her?"

"I couldn't-- There was no money," he said at last.

Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. "Comf'tabul place,"
he said.

The artist flushed. "She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have
turned me out long since. I haven't asked, but I know she pays it.
There is no one else."

"She is rich, probably," said Uncle William.

"Rich?" The young man smiled bitterly. "She has what she earns. She
works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing for
either of us."

"Not unless suthin' come in," said Uncle William. "Suthin' might come
in. You'd kind o' like to see her, wouldn't you?"

The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. "Not till I can pay her
back, every cent!"

"Guess you need another pill, likely," said Uncle William. He got up
in the dark and groped about for the bottle. His great form loomed
large above the bed as he handed it to the young man. "That's four,"
he said soothingly. "Jest about one more'll fix ye."

The young man swallowed it almost grudgingly. He lay back upon the
pillow. "I can pay her the money sometime." His gaunt eyes were
staring into the dark. "But I can never make up to her for the way I
treated her."

"Mebbe she didn't mind," said Uncle William, non-committally.
"Sometimes they don't."

"Mind? She couldn't help minding. I was a fiend to her. I did
everything but strike her."

A smile grew, out of the dark, in Uncle William's face. "I was
thinkin' about that ol' chief," he said slowly--"the one that give me
the pills. I treated him--why, I treated him wuss 'n anything.
'Course, he wa'n't like white folks; but I was fightin' crazy with the
fever, not sick enough to go to bed, but jest sittin' around and
jawin' at things. I dunno /how/ he come to take such a likin' to me.
Might 'a' been on account o' my size--we was about the same build. I'd
set and jaw at him, callin' him names. Don't s'pose he understood half
of 'em, but he could see plain enough I was spittin' mad. He'd kind o'
edge up to me, grinnin' like and noddin', and fust thing I knew, one
day, he'd fetched a pill and made me take it. I was mad enough to 'a'
killed him easy, but 'fore I could get up to do it, I fell asleep
somehow. And when I woke up I felt different. /You/ feel different,
don't you?"

The artist smiled through the soft dark. "I would like to get down on
my knees."

Uncle William smoothed the spread in place. "They'd feel kind o'
sharp, I guess. I wouldn't try it--not yet. You wait till Sergia
comes."

"/Will/ she come?"

"She'd come to-night if she knew you wanted her. You go to sleep, and
in the mornin' you'll take that other pill." He lifted the pillow and
turned it over, patting it in place. "Why, that ol' chief he was so
glad when he see me feelin' better he acted kind o' crazy-like. I held
out my hand to him when I woke up; but he didn't know anything about
shakin' hands. He jest got down and took my feet and hugged 'em. It
made me feel queer," said Uncle William. "You do feel queer when you
hain't acted jest right."



                                 XII

"Can I see her to-day?" It was the first question in the morning.

"You better?"

"Yes."

"You feelin' well enough to sit up?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, you can stay where you be another day." Uncle William
smiled cheerfully.

"Can I see her?"

"We'll see about that. I've got a good many things to tend to." Uncle
William bustled away.

After a time his head was thrust in the door. "I'll go see her,
myself, byme-by," he said kindly. "Mebbe she'll come back with me."

"It's too late now." The artist spoke a little bitterly.

"Too late!" Uncle William came out, reproachful and surprised. "What
d'you mean?"

"It's quarter to nine. She goes to work at nine. She has pupils--she
teaches all day."

Uncle William's face dropped a little. "That's too bad now, ain't it!
But don't you mind. I wa'n't just certain I'd let you see her to-day,
anyhow."

"When can I?"

Uncle William pondered. "You're in a good deal of a hurry, ain't you?"

"I want to tell her--"

"Yes, yes, I know. Well, 'bout to-morrow. How'd that do?"

"You could send her a note," said the artist.

"I'm goin' to see her," said Uncle William. "She'll be to home this
evenin', won't she?"

"Yes."

"I'll go see her."

The artist looked doubtful.

"Can't I got see her?" said Uncle William.

"I was wondering whether you could find the way."


"H'm-m. Where'd you say it was?"

"Eighteenth Street, near Broadway."

"Eighteenth? That's somewheres between Seventeenth and Nineteenth,
ain't it?" said Uncle William, dryly.

"Yes." The artist smiled faintly.

Uncle William nodded. "I thought so. And I don't s'pose they've
changed the lay of Broadway a gre' deal?"

"No--not much."

"Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen'ally do; and I can't get far out
o' the way with this." He touched the compass that hung from the fob
of the great watch. "I've been putty much all over the world with
that. I reckon it'll p'int about the same in New York as it does in
Arichat. Now, I've got your breakfast 'most ready, but I can't seem to
remember about your coffee.-- You take sugar and milk in it, don't
you?"

"Yes." The tone was almost sulky.

Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. "I don't
believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?"

The artist's face changed subtly--like a child's. It was almost
cheerful.

Uncle William laughed out. "That's better--a little mite better. I
guess 'bout day after to-morrow you'll do to see company."

The young man stretched out a hand. "I /must/ see her. I shall get
up--"

"There, there. I wouldn't try to get up if I was you," said Uncle
William, genially. "I've put away your clothes, different places. I
don't jest know where they be, myself. It'll be quite a chore to get
'em all together. You jest lie still, and let me manage."

The young man ate his breakfast with relish. A subtle resolve to get
up and do things was in his eye.

Uncle William watched it, chuckling. "Sha'n't be able to keep him
there more'n a day longer," he said. "Better feed him well whilst I
can." He prepared clam-broth and toast, and wondered about an omelet,
rolling in and out of the room with comfortable gait.

The artist ate everything that was set before him, eagerly. The
resolve in his eye yielded to appreciation. "You ought to have been a
chef, Uncle William. I never tasted anything better than that." He was
eating a last bit of toast, searching with his fork for stray crumbs.

Uncle William nodded. "The' 's a good many things I'd o't to 'a' been
if I'd had time. That's the trouble with livin'. You don't hev time.
You jest practise a day or two on suthin'--get kind o' ust to it--and
then you up and hev to do suthin' else. I like cookin' fust rate while
I'm doin' it. . . . I dunno as I /should/ like it reg'lar, though.
It'd be kind o' fiddlin' work, gettin' up and makin' omelets every
mornin'."

"You're an artist," said the young man.

"Mebbe. Don't you think you've licked that plat about clean?" Uncle
William looked at it approvingly. "It ain't much work to wash dishes
for you."

At intervals during the day the artist demanded his clothes, each time
a little more vigorously. Uncle William put him off. "I don't see that
picter of my house anywheres 'round," he said when pressed too close.

"No."

"You sent it off?"

"Yes." The young man was silent a minute. "Sergia took them--all of
them--when I fell sick. They were not ready--not even framed. She was
to send them to the committee. I have not heard."

"I'll go see 'em in the mornin'," said Uncle William.

"I don't know that you can--"

"Can't anybody go in--if it's an exhibit--by payin' suthin'?"

"I mean, I don't know that they're hung."

"Well, I wouldn't bother about that. I'd like to see 'em jest as well
if they ain't hung. I'm putty tall, but I can scooch down as well as
anybody. It'll seem kind o' good to see the ol' place. I was thinkin'
this mornin' I wish't there was two-three rocks round somewheres. I
guess that's what picters are for. Some folks /hev/ to live in New
York--can't /get/ away. I sha'n't mind if they ain't hung up. I can
see 'em all right, scoochin' a little."

The young man smiled. "I don't know that they're accepted."

"Why not--if she sent 'em?"

"Oh, she sent them all right. They may have been refused."

"At an exhibit?"

"Yes."

"Well, up our way we don't do like that. We take everything that comes
in--pies and pickles and bedquilts and pumpkins and everything; putty
triflin' stuff, some of it, but they take it. This is different, I
s'pose?"

"A little. Yes. They only take the best--or what they call the best."
The tone was bitter.

Uncle William looked at him mildly. "Then they took yourn--every one
on 'em. They was as good picters as I ever see."

The artist's face lightened a little. "They /were/ good." His thought
dwelt on them lovingly.

Uncle William slipped quietly away to his room. The artist heard him
moving about, opening and shutting bureau drawers, humming gently and
fussing and talking in broken bits. Time passed. It was growing dark
in the room.

The artist turned a little impatiently. "Hallo there!"

Uncle William stuck out his head. "Want suthin'?"

"What are you doing?" said the artist. It was almost querulous.

Uncle William came out, smoothing his neckerchief. It was a new one,
blue like the sky. "I was fixin' up a little to go see her. Do I look
to suit you?" He moved nearer in the dusk with a kind of high pride.
The tufts of hair stood erect on his round head, the neckerchief had a
breezy knot with fluttering ends, and the coat hung from his great
shoulders like a sail afloat.

The artist looked him over admiringly. "You're great!" he said. "How
did you come to know enough not to change?"

"I've changed everything!" declared Uncle William. His air of pride
drooped a little.

The artist laughed out. "I mean you kept your same kind of clothes. A
good many people, when they come down here to New York, try to dress
like other folks--get new things."

Uncle William's face cleared. He looked down his great bulk with a
smile. "I like my own things," he said. "I feel to home in 'em."



                                 XIII

Uncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the
card tacked on the panel. "Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin."

He knocked gently.

"Come in." The call came clear and straight.

Uncle William opened the door.

A girl sat at a table across the room, her eyes protected by a green
shade from the lamp that burned near and threw its light on the page
she was copying. She glanced up as the door opened and pushed up the
green shade, looking out from under it inquiringly. She peered a
moment and then sprang up, thrusting aside the shade with a quick
turn. "I am so glad you've come." She crossed the room, holding out
her hands. There was something clear and fresh in the motion--like a
free creature, out of doors.

Uncle William stood smiling at her. "How do you know it's me?" he
said.

The girl laughed quietly. "There couldn't be two." Her voice had a
running, musical quality, with deep notes in it and a little accent
that caught at the words, tripping them lightly. She had taken his
hands with a swift movement and was holding them, looking at him
earnestly. "You are just as he said," she nodded.

Uncle William returned the look. The upturned face flushed a little,
but it did not fall. He put out his hand and touched it. "Some like a
flower," he said, "as near as I can make out--in the dark." He looked
about the huge, bare room, with its single flame shining on the page.

She moved away and lighted a gas-jet on the wall, and then another.
She faced about, smiling. "Will that do?"

Uncle William nodded. "I like a considabul light," he said.

"Yes." She drew forward a chair. "Sit down."

She folded her hands lightly, still scanning him. Uncle William
settled his frame in the big chair. His glance traveled about the
room. The two gas-jets flared at dark corners. A piano emerged
mistily. Music-racks sketched themselves on the blackness. The girl's
face was the only bit of color. It glowed like a red flower, out of
the gloom. Uncle William's glance came back to it. "I got your letter
all right," he said.

"I knew you would come."

"Yes." He was searching absently in his pocket. He drew out the bluish
slip of paper with rough edge. He handed it to her gravely. "I
couldn't take that, my dear, you know."

She put it aside on the table. "I thought you might not have money
enough to come at once, and he needed you."

"Yes, he needed me. He's better."

Her face lightened. The rays of color awoke and played in it. "You
have cured him."

"Well,"--Uncle William was judicious,--"I give him a pill."

She laughed out. "He needed /you/," she said.

"Did he?" Uncle William leaned forward. "I never had anybody need me--
not really need me." His tone confided it to her.

She looked back at him. "I should think every one would."

He looked a little puzzled. "I dunno. But I see, from the way you
wrote, that /he/ did, so I come right along."

"He will get well now."

"He was middlin' discouraged," said Uncle William.

"He couldn't see anything the way it is." Her face had flushed a
little, but the light in her eyes was clear.

Uncle William met it. "You showed a good deal of sense," he said.

The face, as she pushed back the hair from it, looked tired. "I had to
think for two."

Uncle William nodded. "He wants to see you."

She mused over it. "Do you think I'd better?"

"No," said Uncle William, promptly.

Her lips remained parted. "Not to-morrow?" she said. Her lips closed
on the word gently.

"Not for a considabul spell." Uncle William shook his head. "He ain't
acted right."

"He was ill."

"He was sick," admitted Uncle William, "--some. But it was some
cussedness, too. That ain't the main thing though." Uncle William
leaned nearer. "He'll get well faster if he has suthin' to kind o'
pester him."

She looked at him with open eyes.

"It's the way men be," said Uncle William. "The Lord knew how 't was,
I reckon, when he made 'em. He hadn't more'n got 'em done, 'fore he
made wimmen." He beamed on her genially. "He'll get well a good deal
faster if the' 's suthin' he thinks he wants and can't have."

"Yes. How will you keep him away?" A little twinkle sounded in her
voice.

"I'll take him home with me," said Uncle William, "up to Arichat."

"Now?"

"Well, in a day or two--soon's it's safe. It'd do anybody good." His
face grew wistful. "If you jest see it once, the way it is, you'd know
what I mean: kind o' big sweeps,"--he waved his arm over acres of
moor,--"an' a good deal o' sky--room enough for clouds, sizable ones,
and wind. You'd o't to hear our wind." He paused, helpless, before the
wind. He could not convey it.

"I /have/ heard it."

He stared at her. "You been there?"

"I've seen it, I mean--in Alan's pictures."

"Oh, them!" His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought hung on
it. "Where be they?" he asked.

"At the 'Exhibition of American Artists.'" It was the tone of sheer
pride.

"They took 'em, did they?" said William.

"They couldn't help it. They sent back one for lack of room, but he
will have four hung."

"That's good. You haven't told him?"

"I only heard an hour ago, and I had copying to finish. I have a
little recital, of my pupils, this evening. I was planning to write
the letter and mail it on the way out."

Uncle William started up. "I'm hinderin' ye."

"No--please." She had forced him back gently. "I shall not have to
write the letter now. Tell me about him." Her face was alight.

Uncle William considered. "The' ain't much to tell, I guess. He's
gettin' better. He's actin' the way men gen'ally do."

"Yes--?" Her voice sang a little. "And he wants to see me?"

"Wust way," said Uncle William; "but he ain't goin' to. What was you
copyin' when I come in?"

"Some music--for one of the big houses. It helps out."

Uncle William was looking at her thoughtfully. "He'd better give up
his place when we go," he said. "He'll, like enough, stay with me all
summer."

"His rooms, you mean?" She mused a little. "Yes, perhaps--"

"They must cost a good deal," said Uncle William.

"They do." She paused a minute. "He is almost sure to take a prize,"
she said. "It's the best work he has done."

"That'll be good," said Uncle William. "But we won't count too much on
it. He won't need money in Arichat. A little goes a long ways up
there. Good night." He was holding out his hand.

She placed hers in it slowly. Uncle William lifted the slim fingers.
He patted them benignly. "They don't look good for much, but they're
pretty," he said.

She laughed out quietly. "They have to be," she said. "They're my
tools. I /have/ to be careful of them. That is one of the things we
quarreled about--Alan and I. He knew I ought not to use them and he
wouldn't let me do things for him, and he wouldn't have a nurse, nor
go to the hospital." She sighed a little. "He was very obstinate."

"Just like a mule," assented Uncle William. He was stroking the
fingers gently. "But he's got a new driver this time." He chuckled a
little.

She looked up quickly. "Has he consented to go?"

"Well, we're goin'.--It comes to the same thing I reckon," said Uncle
William. He was looking at the dark face with the darker lines beneath
the eyes. "You'll hev an easier time," he said. "It's been putty hard
on you."

"Oh, I don't mind," quickly, "--only the misunderstandings--and the
quarrels--"

"That was the fever," said Uncle William.

"But /I/ didn't have the fever," said the girl. "I might have been
patient."

"Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself'd quarrel with a man that
had one of them intermittent fevers," said the old man thoughtfully.
"They're powerful trying'. You feel better--a little--and you perk up
and think you're goin' to get well, and then, fust thing you know,
there you are--all to do over again. If I had my ch'ice of all the
diseases in the calendar, that's the one I /wouldn't/ take. Some on
'em you hev the comfort of knowin' you'll die of 'em--if ye live long
enough." He chuckled a little. "But this one, ye can't die and ye
can't get well."

"But /he/ is going to get well?" The girl's eyes held him.

"Yes, he'll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell--and
the sun. The fever's broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and
good company. You'll be comin' up to see us byme-by, mebbe?" He looked
at her hopefully.

"Do you think I could?"

"Well, I dunno why not. He'll be gettin' restless in a month or so.
You might as well be married up there as anywhere. We've got a good
minister--a fust-rate one."

She smiled a little wistfully. "He won't have me," she said.

"Shucks!" said Uncle William. "You come up, and if he don't marry you,
I will."

A bell sounded somewhere. She started. "I must go." A thought crossed
her face. "I wonder if you would like it--the recital?" She was
looking at him, an amused question in her eyes."

"Is it speaking pieces?" said Uncle William, cautiously.

"Playing them, and singing--one or two. It's a musicale, you know. You
might like it--" She was still thinking, her forehead a little
wrinkled. "They are nice girls and-- Oh--?" the forehead suddenly
lifted, "you /would/ like it. There are sea-pieces--MacDowell's.
They're just the thing.--" She held him hospitably.--"Do come. You
would be sure to enjoy it."

"Like enough," said Uncle William. "It takes all kinds of singing to
make a world. I might like 'em fust-rate. And it won't take long?"

"No--only an hour or two. You can leave /him/, can't you?" The pretty
forehead had wrinkled again.

"Easy as not," said Uncle William. "Best thing for him. He'll have a
chance to miss me a little."

She smiled at him reproachfully. "We'll have to hurry, I'm afraid.
It's only a step. But we ought to go at once."

Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe
movements of the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned
away, she seemed larger, more vigorous. "A reg'lar clipper, and built
for all kinds of weather," said Uncle William as he followed fast. "I
wouldn't be afraid to trust her anywheres. She'd reef down quick in a
blow." He chuckled to himself.

She looked around. "Here we are."



                                 XIV

They had paused at the foot of a flight of stairs. Down the narrow
hall-way floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with
drifting strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly
withdrawn.

The old man looked at her inquiringly. "They hain't begun?"

She shook her head. "They're tuning up."

His face lifted a little. "I reckoned that couldn't be the beginnin'.
But ye can't al'ays tell. They make queer noises sometimes."

"Yes.--I must leave you now." She had ushered him into a small hall.
"I'm going to have you sit here, quite near the platform, where I can
see you." She looked at him a little anxiously. "You don't need to
stay if you don't like it, you know."

"Oh, I shall like it fust-rate," he responded. "It looks like a real
comf'tabul chair to set in."

He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had
selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the
audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that
Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too classic
for him. She left him with a little murmur of apology.

A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses,
fluttered forward with a program.

Uncle William took it in pleased fingers. He searched for his
spectacles and mounted them on his nose, staring at the printed lines.
The audience had settled down to attention. Amused glances traveled
toward the big figure absorbed in its program. Sergia had whispered a
word here and there as she left the room. It made its way back through
the crowd--"A friend of Mademoiselle Lvova's--a sea-captain. She has
brought him to hear the MacDowell pieces." The audience smiled and
relaxed. The music was beginning. Two young girls played a concerto
from Rubenstein, with scared, flying fingers. They were relieved when
it was done, and the audience clapped long and loud. Some one brought
them bunches of flowers--twin lilies, tied exactly alike, with long
white ribbons. Uncle William, his spectacles pushed up on the tufts of
hair, watched with admiring glance as they escaped from the stage. He
turned to his right-hand neighbor, an old gentleman with white hair
and big, smooth, soft hands, who had watched the performance with
gentle care.

"Putty girls," said Uncle William, cordially.

The man looked at him, smiling. "One of them is my granddaughter,
sir," he responded affably.

She came from the door by the platform and sat down near her
grandfather, the lilies and the long white ribbons trailing from
nervous fingers. Uncle William leaned forward and smiled at her,
nodding encouragement.

She replied with a quick, shy smile and fixed her eyes on the
platform.

More pupils followed--young girls and old ones, and a youth with a
violin that fluttered and wailed and grew harmonious at last as the
youth forgot himself. Uncle William's big, round face beamed upon him.
Sergia, watching him from behind the scenes, could see that he
regarded them all as nice children. He would have looked the same had
they played on jews'-harps and tin horns. But he was enjoying it. She
was glad of that.

She came out during the intermission to speak with him. "They're all
through now," she said encouragingly.

He looked down at his program bewildered, and a little disappointed,
she thought. "They got 'em all done?--I didn't hear that 'Wanderin'
Iceberg' one," he said regretfully. "I cal'ated to listen to that. But
I was so interested in the children that I clean forgot.--They're nice
children." He looked about the room where they were laughing and
talking in groups. "Time to go, is it?"

"Not yet. That was only the first half--the pupils' half. The rest is
what I wanted you to hear--the sea-pieces and the others. They are
played by real musicians."

"You goin' to do one?" asked Uncle William.

"Yes, one." She smiled at him.

"I'll stay." He settled back comfortably.

"That's right. I must go now and speak to some of the mothers. They
only come for the first half. They will be going home." She moved
away.

Uncle William's eyes followed her admiringly. He turned to the old
gentleman beside him. "Nice girl," he said.

"She is a fine teacher," responded the old gentleman. "She had not
been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament."

"Has she?" Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically. "Makes
'em stand around does she? You can't ever tell about temper. Sometimes
it's the quietest ones has the wust. But she makes 'em work good. You
can see that."

"Yes, she makes them work." The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly
and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He was
receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle
William--a subtle tang--that he liked. It was a new flavor.

Uncle William studied his program. "Sounds more sensible'n some of
it." He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. "I can
understand that, now, 'To an Old White Pine.' That's interestin'. Now
that one there." He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, "'Opus 6,
No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.' Now mebbe /you/ know what that means--/I/
don't. But an ol' white-pine tree--anybody can see that. We don't hev
'em up my way--pine-trees. But I like 'em--al'ays did--al'ays set
under 'em when they're handy. You don't hev many round here?"

The old gentleman smiled. "No; there are not many old white pines in
New York. I can remember a few, as a boy."

"Can ye?--Right in the center here?" Uncle William was interested.

"Well, not just here--a little out. But they're gone." The old
gentleman sighed. "MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the
wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and
rubbing, and a still kind of light all around. It's very nice."

"Good poetry, I s'pose," assented Uncle William. "I don't care so much
for poetry myself. Some on it's good," he added thoughtfully. "'The
Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,' that swings off kind o' nice, and
'Horatius at the Bridge.' But most on it has a kind o' travelin' round
way with it--has to go round by Robin Hood's barn to get anywheres.
I'm gen'ally sort o' drowsy whilst it's bein' read."

The old gentleman had laughed out genially. "MacDowell doesn't write
poetry, except short things--lines for headings. He makes it on the
piano."

"Makes an old white-pine tree?" demanded Uncle William.

"Well--something like that."

Uncle William returned to his program. "There'll be a 'water-lily,'
then, will the'? and an 'eagle,' and a 'medder brook,' and a
'wanderin' iceberg,' and a 'pair o' bars'?" He looked up with a soft
twinkle. "And like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I
keep a-wonderin' what that wanderin' iceberg'll be like. I've /seen/ a
wanderin' iceberg,--leastways I've come mighty near one,--but I ain't
ever /heard/ it. You ever met a wanderin' iceberg?" His tone was
friendly and solicitous.

The New York man shook his head. "Only the human kind."

Uncle William chuckled. "I've met that kind myself--and the other
kind, too." He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed itself. Sergia
was seated at the piano.

It was a Beethoven number, a sonata. Uncle William apparently went to
sleep. Sergia, watching him, smiled gently. He must be very tired,
poor dear. The next number will keep him awake all right. It did. It
was sung by a famous baritone--"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo
ho! Yo ho!" Uncle William sat up. Joy radiated from him. He clutched
his chair with both hands and beamed. The audience laughed with
delight and clapped an encore.

"Goin' to do it again, is he?" said Uncle William. "Now that's good of
him, ain't it? But I should think he'd kind o' like to. I'd like to do
it myself if I could."

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest!" rolled out the voice.

"He gets the spirit of it," said the old gentleman when the song had
ended and the applause had subsided.

"Jest so. I've been there myself--come within an ace o' havin' /my/
chest set on once. They was all fightin' drunk, too--jest like that.
Gives ye the same kind o' feelin's--creepy and shivery-like. What's
/he/ goin' to do?" A long-haired youth had appeared on the platform.
He approached the piano and stood looking at it thoughtfully, his head
a little to one side.

"It's Flanders. He plays the MacDowell--the 'Wandering Iceberg,' you
know."

"H'm-m." Uncle William took down his spectacles to look at the youth
through them. "You think he can do it all right? He ain't very hefty."

The youth had seated himself. He struck a heavy, thundering chord on
the keys and subsided. His hands hung relaxed at his sides and his
eyes were fixed dreamily on the wall before him.

"Has he got her started?" It was a loud whisper from Uncle William.

The old gentleman shook his head.

Uncle William waited patiently. There was a gentle trickle on the keys
--and another. Then a pause and more trickles--then some galloping
notes, with heavy work in the bass.

Uncle William looked interested. "She's gettin' under way, like
enough.

"Sh-h!" The old gentleman held up a hand.

There were some long, flowing lines and a swirling sound that might
have been water, and low growls in the bass, and a general rumbling
and gritting and sliding and tumbling among the notes. The sounds
stopped altogether. The youth sat staring before him. Applause broke
from the audience. The youth got up and left the platform.

Uncle William stared after him with open mouth. "Has he got her done?"
He turned to the man at his side.

"All done. How did you like it?"

"Well"--Uncle William squinted thoughtfully at his program--"I thought
I was goin' to like it fust-rate--if he'd got to it."

"He didn't get there, then?" The man laughed.

"Not to the iceberg." Uncle William shook his head. A kindly look grew
in his face. "I dunno's he's so much to blame, though. An iceberg must
be kind o' hard to do, I should think likely."

"/I/ should think it might be. Music isn't cold enough."

"'T ain't the cold," said Uncle William, hastily. "I run acrost an
iceberg once. We was skirmishin' round up North, in a kind o' white
fog, frosty-like, and cold--cold as blazes; and all of a sudden we was
on her--close by her, somewheres, behind the frost. We wa'n't cold any
more. It was about the hottest time I ever knew," he said
thoughtfully.

"What happened?"

Uncle William roused himself. "Well, after a spell we knew she wa'n't
there any more, and we cooled down some. But we wa'n't real cold--not
for much as a day or so."

The youth had returned to the piano. The audience met him with wild
applause, half-way, and he bowed solemnly from his hips. There was a
weary look in his face.

Uncle William looked him over critically. "He don't more'n half like
it, does he?"

The other man coughed a little. Then he laughed out.

Uncle William smiled genially. "I've seen his kind--a good many times.
Looks as if they was goin' to cry when you was feedin' 'em sugar. They
gen'ally like it real well, too." He consulted his program. "Goin' to
do a hammock, is he?"

The hammock began to sway, and Uncle William's big head rocked softly
in time to it. "Some like it," he said when it was done; "not enough
to make you sea-sick--jest easy swingin'."

The youth had not left the piano. He played "The Bars at Sunset," and
"A Water Lily," and "The Eagle," and then the two sea pieces. Uncle
William listened with mild attention.

When it was over and the audience had begun to disperse, Sergia came
out. She approached Uncle William, scanning his face. "How did you
like it?"

"They all done?" he demanded.

"Yes. Did you like the sea pieces?"

"I liked 'em. Yes--I liked 'em." Uncle William's tone was moderate.

Sergia was smiling at him a little. "The 'Depths of the Ocean'--you
liked that best, didn't you?"

Uncle William looked guilty. "I knew you was goin' to ask me about
that one," he said, "and I'd meant to listen hard--real hard--to it. I
hain't ever been quite so far down as that, but I thought mebbe I
could gauge it. But you see,"--his tone grew confidential and a little
apologetic,--"when they got that far along, I couldn't really tell
which was which. I wa'n't /plumb/ sure whether it was the eagle he was
doin' or the dep'hs, and it mixed me up some. I didn't jest know
whether to soar up aloft or dive considabul deep. It kep' me kind o'
teeterin' betwixt and between--" He looked at her appealingly, yet
with a little twinkle somewhere below.

"I see." Sergia's face was dancing. "The names /do/ help."

"That's it," said Uncle William, gallantly. "If he'd 'a' read off the
names, or stopped quite a spell between the pieces, I'd 'a' done fust-
rate. He was playin' 'em nice. I could see the folks liked 'em." He
smiled at her kindly.

Sergia smiled back. "Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they
understand him--when they know which it is." Her smile had grown
frank, like a boy's. "But which did you like best
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