J 
 

 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3523.E257US 1906 
 
 Uncle Wllllam.the man who was shifless. 
 
 3 1924 021 757 699 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021757699 
 
Uncle William 
 
fbe Same Sutboc 
 
 KATE WETHERILL 
 
 A PILLAR OF SALT 
 
 THE SON 'OF A 
 FIDDLER 
 
 SIMEON TETLOW'S 
 SHADOW 
 
Uncle William 
 
 The Man Who Was Shif 'less 
 
 By JENNETTE LEE ^ 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 Publishers New York 
 
Copyright, 1906, by 
 The Oentuey Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1905, by 
 P. F. CoLLiBB & Sow 
 
 Fublished March, MOB 
 
TO 
 
 GERALD STANLEY LEI 
 
 "Let Mm sing to me 
 Who sees the watching of the stars above the day, 
 Who hears the singing of the stinriae 
 On its way 
 
 Through all the night. 
 Who outfaces sMes, outsings the storms. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Let him sing to me 
 
 Who is the sky-voice, the thnnder-lover, 
 Who hears above the winds' fast flying shrouds 
 The drif tea darkness, the heavenly strife. 
 The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds 
 Of his own life." 
 
Uncle William 
 
Uncle William 
 
 »ES, I 'm shif'less. I 'm 
 gen 'ally considered shif'- 
 less," said William Ben- 
 slow. He spoke in a tone 
 of satisfaction, and hitched his trous- 
 ers 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 mys- 
 terious green in the water that he 
 failed to find in his color-box. 
 
 William Benslow watched him pa- 
 tiently. "Kind o' ticklish business, 
 ain't it?" he said. 
 
 3 
 
4 Uncle William 
 
 The artist admitted that it was, 
 "I reckon I would n't ever 'a' done 
 for a painter," said the old man, re- 
 adjusting 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-scrap- 
 in', day in and day out. I should n'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 
 
Uncle William 5 
 
 below. ** There 's not much money in 
 it?" he suggested. 
 
 "Money? Dunno 's there is," re- 
 turned 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 'U teach you art. You see that color 
 out there,— deep green like shadowed 
 grass-" 
 
6 Uncle William 
 
 The old man nodded. "I Ve seen 
 that a good many times," he said. 
 "Cur 'us, ain't if?— 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 sus- 
 pender 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 7 
 
 Uncle "William nodded. "Cur'tis, 
 ain't it? there 's a lot in tlie way you 
 see a thing. ' ' 
 
 "There certainly is," said the 
 painter. His brush moved in swift 
 strokes across the canvas. ' ' There cer- 
 tainly is. I 've been studyi^ag 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 J. 
 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 
 
8 Uncle William 
 
 times, too, when I 've been sailin','' he 
 went on— "how them artists come up 
 here summer after summer makin' pic- 
 ters,— 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-fin- 
 ished 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 gath- 
 ered 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 9 
 
 Uncle William reached out a friendly- 
 hand for the canvas, but the artist drew 
 it back quickly. "No, no," he said.. 
 "You 'drub 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 would n 't risk it, ' ' he said. ' ' Come 
 on." 
 
 They turned to the path that zigzag- 
 ged its way up the cliff, and with bent 
 backs and hinged knees they mounted to 
 the little house perched on its edge. 
 
II 
 
 |HE old man pushed open the 
 door with a friendly kick. 
 "Go right along in," he 
 said. "I '11 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, 
 
 10 
 
Uncle William 1 1 
 
 rubbing against 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 '11 
 be along in a minute. Don't you 
 worry. ' ' 
 
 She turned her back on him and,. 
 seating herself, began to wash her f ace* 
 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, seiz- 
 ing her by the tail, swung her clear of 
 his path, landing her on the big lounge. 
 With a purr of satisfaction, she settled 
 
12 Uncle William 
 
 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 '11 heat up 
 «[uick." He thrust in some light sticks 
 and pushed forward the kettle. ^ ' Now, 
 if j6vL '11 reach into that box behind you 
 and get the potatoes," he said, "I '11 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 
 
Uncle William ij 
 
 don't dare resk it without. I got hold 
 of the pepper-box last time. Thought 
 it was the salt— same shape. The chow- 
 der was hot." He chuckled. "I earn 
 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 clam» 
 with slow, thoughtful fingers. His bigi 
 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 
 
14 Uncle William 
 
 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 sin- 
 gle 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, my- 
 self—not any reel need. But it 's a com- 
 fort. 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 
 
Uncle William 15 
 
 Toiss 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 s\^^inging, ship 
 fashion, from a beam above, and sur- 
 veyed 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 chow- 
 der—reel 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 
 
1 6 Uncle William 
 
 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 iive hunderd a 
 year and keep." The old man chuckled. 
 "I told him I would n't go for a thou- 
 sand—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. ' ' 
 
Uncle William 17 
 
 "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 Liv- 
 erpool 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 
 
I 8 Uncle William 
 
 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 '11 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 gtiff 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. ' ' 
 
Uncle William ig 
 
 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 to- 
 gether 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 reelly 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 
 anug and put down the other anchor," 
 
2 Uncle William 
 
 he said. "You stay till I come back and 
 we '11 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. 
 
ni 
 
 HE artist had been dream- 
 
 T'^ ing. 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. 
 
 21 
 
2 2 Uncle William 
 
 In the lull that followed, steps sounded 
 np 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 ^th 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. Tou '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, open- 
 ing wide the drafts. A fresh blaze 
 sprang up. The artist leaned forward, 
 holding out his hands to it. 
 
Uncle William 23 
 
 "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 an- 
 chor a little, as I went out, and I stopped 
 to fix her. It took quite a spell. I 
 could n'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 bot- 
 tom for her and made things fast 
 before I left. I reckon she '11 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 does n't he anchor up there," 
 said the artist, "near by?" 
 
24 Uncle William 
 
 The old man shook his head. "He 's 
 a kind o' set man, Andy is— part Irish 
 and part Scotch. He al'ays has an- 
 chored 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 reelly, 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 
 
Uncle William 25 
 
 guess there ain't a mean thing about 
 Andy that I don't know, and he the 
 same about me. I should feel kind 0' 
 lonesome nights not to hev his boat to 
 look after— and know, like as not, in the 
 mornin' he '11 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 affec- 
 tion, 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. "Wim- 
 men folks is a good deal alike," he re- 
 marked dryly. ' ' They like to be comf '- 
 tabul." 
 
2 6 Uncle William 
 
 ' ' Some of them, ' ' assented the artist. 
 
 The old man looked up with a swift 
 twinkle. ' ' So-o r ' 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 occuppied 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 uncer- 
 tainly. 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 
 
Uncle William 27 
 
 from his face. It was full of gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 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 spec- 
 tacles and regarded him with a satis- 
 fied 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, per- 
 haps. Wimmen and the sea are alike- 
 some ways a good deal alike. I 've 
 lived by the sea sixty year, you know, 
 
2 8 Uncle William 
 
 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 would n'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 pic- 
 ture. ' ' 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 Eussian." 
 
 "Russian— jest so! I might 'a' 
 known it! I touched Russia once, ran 
 
Uncle William 29 
 
 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 care- 
 fully. "Eussian, 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 
 
30 Uncle William 
 
 William looked at tlie 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 
 could n't put her anywheres she 
 would n't sing\— " 
 
 "She does sing. How did you 
 know?" 
 
 Uncle William's eyes twinkled to the 
 boyish face. "Well, I did n't know it 
 —not jest that way. I did n'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 does n't sing in public. But her 
 
Uncle William 31 
 
 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 has n't 
 any. They all died over there— her 
 father and brother in the riots, her mo- 
 ther 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 is n'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 
 
32 Uncle William 
 
 a-gettin' out the boats and yellin' and 
 ehoutin'— Seems 's if it ougM to 'a' 
 been excitin'. But, Lord! 'twa'ri't 
 nutbin' to what I 've felt otber times— 
 times when it was all still-like on the 
 island here— and big— so 's 't you kind 
 o' bear sutbin' comin' to ye over tbe 
 water. Wby, some days it 's been so 's 
 I 'd feel 's if I 'd bust if I did n't do 
 sutbin*- sutbin' to let off steam." 
 
 Tbe young man nodded. ' ' You ougbt 
 to be an artist. Tbat 's tbe way tbey 
 feel— some of tbem." 
 
 Uncle William beamed on Mm. "You 
 don't say so! Must be kind o' bard 
 work, settin' still and doin' art wben 
 you feel like tbat. I gen 'ally go clam- 
 min', or sutbin'." 
 
 Tbe artist laugbed out, boyisbly. He 
 reacbed out a band for tbe locket. 
 
 But Uncle William beld it a moment, 
 looking down at it. ' ' Tbings bappen to 
 
Uncle William 33 
 
 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 would n'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 would n'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 every- 
 thing that tastes good. I meant to get 
 
34 Uncle William 
 
 married once," he said after a pause. 
 "I did n'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 did n'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 did n'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 had n'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 
 
Uncle William 35 
 
 yon do bein' miserable— only you learn 
 it quicker. ' ' 
 
 "I can't give up my art," said tbe 
 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 sud- 
 denly, 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 
 kad sixty year of livin', off and on." 
 
 "But you '11 die poor," said the 
 
36 Uncle William 
 
 artist, with a glance about the little 
 room. He was thinMng what a dear 
 old duffer the man was— with his curi- 
 ous, impracticable philosophy of life 
 and his big, kind ways. "You '11 die 
 poor if you don't look out," he said 
 again, 
 
 "Yes, I suppose 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 '11 mix a little 
 suthin' hot, and then we '11 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 
 could n't hear yourself think out there 
 —let alone findin' the path. I '11 jest 
 
Uncle William 37 
 
 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 momin' you '11 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 'U 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 
 
38 Uncle William 
 
 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 chim- 
 ney, anyhow, and the last one 's jest 
 come down. I counted 'em fallin'." 
 
IV 
 
 ing fish. 
 
 |HE artist stood on the beach, 
 his hands in his pockets. 
 
 I Near by, seated on a bit of 
 driftwood, a man was clean- 
 
 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 fever- 
 ishly. He saw the water and the rugged 
 
 39 
 
4© Uncle William 
 
 land as Uncle William saw them. 
 Through his eyes, he painted them. 
 They took on color and bigness— sim- 
 plicity. "They will call it my third 
 style," said the artist, smiling, as he 
 worked. "They ought to call it the 
 Uncle William style. I did n'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!" 
 
Uncle William 41 
 
 "Yep." The man tossed aside an- 
 other fish. "Ye can't edm money 
 Stan 'in' with your hands in your pock- 
 ets." 
 
 "I guess that 's so," said the artist, 
 cheerfully. He did not remove the 
 hands. The fingers found a few pen- 
 nies in the depths and jingled them 
 merrily. 
 
 "There 's Willuin," 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 re- 
 spectful interest. 
 
 The man looked at him more toler- 
 antly. ' ' 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, 
 
42 Uncle William 
 
 what ■Willrun 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 1 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 to- 
 ward it with half-closed lids. It glowed 
 —a riot of color, green and red, cool 
 against the mounting sky. ' ' I have n '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." 
 
Uncle William 43 
 
 "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 '11 go for a sail," said the 
 artist. 
 
 The other glanced at the horizon. 
 "It 's going to storm," he said indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 "I '11 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 '11 watch out. " 
 
 "All right. 'T aia't my business," 
 said the man. He went on slitting fish. 
 
 The harbor held a still light— omin- 
 ously— 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 
 
44 Uncle William 
 
 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 it- 
 self. 
 
 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 Wil- 
 liam regarded him mildly. "I o't to 
 'a ' kept an eye on him, ' ' he said humbly. 
 "I did n'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 
 
Uncle William 45 
 
 up he wa'n't there." He slid the tele- 
 scope together and slipped it into his 
 pocket. "I '11 hev to go after him," he 
 said. 
 
 The other looked up quickly. 
 "How '11 you go?" 
 
 Uncle William nodded toward the 
 boat that dipped securely at anchor. 
 "I '11 take Tier," he said. 
 
 The man laughed shortly. "The 
 Andrew Halloranf 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 '11 hev to, Andrew." Uncle 
 
46 Uncle William 
 
 William bent to the bow of tbe 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, Willum," he 
 said pacifically. "You can take the 
 boat in welcome, but don't take we. 
 It 's too much reski" 
 
 "It 's al'ays a resk to do youV duty," 
 said Uncle William. "Jump in. I 
 can't stand talkin'." An edge of im- 
 patience grazed the words. 
 
 The man stepped in and seized the 
 oars. "I '11 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 '11 
 go, Andrew," he said; "you would n't 
 want a man drowned right at your door- 
 yard." 
 
Uncle William 
 
 "You can't live in it," said And] 
 He lifted his face to the light. Fa 
 the east a boat crawled against 
 "It '11 strike in five minutes;" he s 
 
 "Like enough," said Uncle Will 
 —"like enough. Easy^.there!" 
 seized the stern of the Andfew Eallc 
 and sprang on board. They worke 
 swift silence. Hoisting the anchor, 
 ting out the sail,— a single reef,- n 
 ing it fast. "All she '11 stan'," i 
 Uncle William. He turned to the h( 
 
 Andrew, seated on the tiller bei 
 glared at him defiantly. "If sh( 
 going out, I take her, ' ' he said. 
 
 "You get right over there and t 
 the sheet, Andy," said Uncle Willi 
 
 In silence the other obeyed. He 
 did the rope, letting it out with cauti 
 hand. The low sail caught the br( 
 and stiffened to it. The boat ci 
 round to the wind, dipping lightly. 
 
48 Uncle William 
 
 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, stretch- 
 ing 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. 
 
Uncle William 49 
 
 Through the dark they drove, stunned 
 and grim. The minutes lengthened to 
 ages and beat them, eternally, in tor- 
 ment. 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, crouch- 
 ing 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, kick- 
 ing a wake of foam. 
 
 Andrew from beneath the bench lifted 
 his sopped head, like a turtle, breath- 
 less. 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 vet. 
 ' ' There she is ! " he said in a deep voice. 
 "Let her out, Andy." 
 
 With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to 
 
50 Uncle William 
 
 the sail, untying a second reef and loos- 
 ing 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 tiUer. "We 'II 
 make, it, Andy," he said quietly. 
 ' ' We '11 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. 
 
Uncle William 5 1 
 
 Across the water something bobbed- 
 black, uncertain. 
 
 ' ' Look sharp, Andy, ' ' said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 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 
 
52 Uncle William 
 
 at the end of a huge arm. As he looked 
 Tip 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 ex- 
 panded and filled the horizon— thick 
 and nebulous and dizzy. 
 
 "Roll him over, Andy," said Uncle 
 William, "roll him over. He 's shipped 
 too much," 
 
INCLE 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. 
 
 33 
 
54 Uncle William 
 
 "He 's gone," assented Uncle Wil- 
 liam, 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 Tsout that, ' ' said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 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 '11 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 
 
Uncle William 55 
 
 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 boat?" asked Andrew, carelessly. 
 
 Uncle William paused. He looked 
 up to the clear sky. ' ' I should n 't need 
 her much more this fall, anyways," he 
 said. "An' come spring, I'll get an- 
 other. 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 
 
56 Uncle William 
 
 the fish. Gunnion hain't settled with 
 me yet for my fish." 
 
 Andrew nodded. "Seventy-five dol- 
 lars." 
 
 "And I 've got quite a count of lob- 
 sters up to the boardin '-house— " 
 
 Andrew's small eyes squinted know- 
 ingly. "Out 0' season?" 
 
 Uncle William returned the look be- 
 nignly. "We did n'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 'II send a 
 little suthin'," he added. 
 
 "Like enough I" said Andrew. 
 
Uncle William 57 
 
 "He mentioned it," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 "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 awaiy. 
 
 Uncle William smiled. "You don't 
 have faith, Andy," he said reproach- 
 fully. "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 eye rested impassively on 
 
58 Uncle William 
 
 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 '11 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 fel- 
 low. ' ' Andrew gave a wave of his hand 
 that condensed scorn. "What 'd you 
 get out o' him, a-gabblin' and sailin' aU 
 summer?". 
 
 "I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put 
 into words," said William, thought- 
 fully, "what I did get out o' him." 
 
Uncle William 59 
 
 "Ump! I guess you could n't— nor 
 anybody else. When lie sends you any- 
 thing for that boat 0' yourn, you jest 
 let me know it, will you?" 
 
 "Why, yes, Andy, I '11 let you know 
 if you want me to. I '11 be reel pleased 
 to let you know," said Uncle William. 
 
VI 
 
 T was Indian summer. Uncle 
 William was mending his 
 chinmey. He had built a 
 platform to work on. An- 
 other man would have clung to the slop- 
 ing 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 com- 
 fortable 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 
 
 60 
 
Uncle William 6i 
 
 Uncle William. ' ' I know I do. I don 't 
 like to work none too well, anyhow. 
 Might as well be comf'tabul if yon 
 can." 
 
 The platform was comfortable. Even 
 Andy admitted that, when Uncle Wil- 
 liam 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 
 
62 Uncle William 
 
 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. 
 
 TJncle William pursued him, peering 
 over. ' ' You '11 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 mor- 
 tar to freeze, and I 'm kind o ' 'f raid of 
 
Uncle William 63 
 
 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 Wil- 
 liam 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, clean- 
 ing 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 vasi; calm, wore a look of re- 
 
64 Uncle William 
 
 solve. 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 wan- 
 dered 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', Andyf" 
 
 "How much you got done?" de- 
 manded Andy. 
 
 Uncle William looked at it thought- 
 
Uncle William 6^ 
 
 fully. "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 con- 
 science 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. 
 
66 Uncle William 
 
 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?" 
 
 ^ndy 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 
 
Uncle William 67 
 
 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 wef " 
 
 "I wa'n't," said Andy, shortly. 
 "He 'd lick a feller every chance he 
 got." 
 
 "Yes, that 's so— I guess that 's so." 
 Uncle William was slapping on the mor- 
 tar with heavy skill. "But he did it 
 kind o' neat, did n'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 
 
68 Uncle William 
 
 kind o' forgot, I guess. And I set a 
 heap o' store by Mm. 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. 
 Could n'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 
 
Uncle William 69 
 
 as if they was kind ' near us ; not touch- 
 ing close, but round somewheres. Now, 
 I would n 't reelly say Benjy Bodet was 
 in that cloud— ' ' 
 
 Andy stared at it suspiciously, 
 
 "He ain't reelly there, but it makes 
 me feel the way he did. I used to get 
 up kind o' light in the momin', '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 
 
7© Uncle William 
 
 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 Har- 
 r'et a good many year." 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "She come 
 from Digby way, did n't she?" 
 
 "Northeast o' Digby. And some 
 days I feel as if I wa'n't even ac- 
 quainted 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 71 
 
 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 sat and watched Andy's figure 
 down the road. Then he took up the 
 trowel once more, whistling. The float- 
 ing 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 goiu' 
 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. 
 
vn 
 
 iHE winter was a hard one. 
 The cold that had set in the 
 night the d^^nmey was fin- 
 ished did not abate. The 
 island froze to its core and a sting- 
 ing keenness held the air. The very 
 rocks seemed charged with it. One al- 
 most 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 
 
 72 
 
Uncle William 73 
 
 fast, and the pile of money hoarded be- 
 hind 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 Grand- 
 ma 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 house- 
 keeper at best, and ten o'clock of win- 
 ter mornings often found him with 
 breakfast dishes unwashed and the floor 
 unswept. Andy, coming in for his 
 
74 Uncle William 
 
 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 despon- 
 dent. Uncle William read the letters to 
 Andy, who commented on them accord- 
 ing 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 com- 
 ing. He seemed to have accepted the 
 
Uncle William 75 
 
 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 fol- 
 lowed the advice. It generally failed 
 to work. 
 
 It was late in the winter that Andy 
 appeared one morning bringing a let- 
 ter 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, 
 
76 Uncle William 
 
 thank ye." Uncle William reached 
 out a hand for it. 
 
 Andy's fingers relaxed on it grudg- 
 ingly. He had once or twice been al- 
 lowed to open and read the letters in 
 the temporary absence of Uncle Wil- 
 liam'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 Wil- 
 liam, 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 old Bodet 
 place, and one on the hill, this side of 
 
Uncle William 77 
 
 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 let- 
 ter. " 'The Exhibition of American 
 Artists'— suthin' like a fair, I take it. 
 And he 's goin ' to send 'em. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Thinks he '11 take a prize, I s 'pose. ' ' 
 Andy's tone held fine scepticism. 
 
 "Well, I dunno. He don't say nuth- 
 in' about a prize. He does kind 0' 
 hint that he'll be sendin' me suthin' 
 pretty soon. I guess likely there '11 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?" 
 
78 Uncle William 
 
 «' ; 
 
 '7 don't care," sullenly. Uncle 
 William brought out the board and ar- 
 ranged 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 fin- 
 gers 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 79 
 
 Uncle "William met it mildly. He set 
 his man in place witli 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 drummed a lit- 
 tle 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 
 Williani arose to put more wood into 
 the glowing stove. But he did it with 
 
8o Uncle William 
 
 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 re- 
 mained. 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 an- 
 nounced. 
 
 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. 
 
Uncle William 8i 
 
 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." 
 
82 Uncle William 
 
 "7 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 get- 
 tin ' 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 '11 
 stay— must be 'most time." He 
 pulled the great watch from its fob 
 pocket and looked at it with absent eye. 
 
Uncle William 83 
 
 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 if?" said Andy. 
 
 "It 's five minutes to three, Andy. 
 Ouess you 'd better stay," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
vin 
 
 INCLE 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 
 
 84 
 
Uncle William 85 
 
 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 need n't ^a' done that! Of 
 course I '11 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. 
 
 " Mt dear Mr. Benslow : You have not forgotten 
 Alan Woodworth, the artist who was in Axiohat last 
 sununert I am writing to tell yon 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 in- 
 deed. He is in his rooms alone and there is no one 
 
86 Uncle William 
 
 to look after him. His friends have tried all along to 
 have him go to a hospital, or to let them take eare of 
 him. But until two or three weeks ago he would have 
 times of partial recovery— days j»hen he seemed per- 
 fectly 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 did n'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 mut- 
 tering in his sleep. If you could come down for a lit- 
 tle 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 
 
Uncle William 87 
 
 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 sfiiile, 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 could n't 
 take their money, nohow," he said 
 slowly. "I must go and see Andy. 
 He '11 help out. He '11 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 expect- 
 
88 Uncle William 
 
 antly against him. He fed her bits of 
 the herring with impartial hand. When 
 the meal was over, he went to the chim- 
 ney and took out the loose brick, reach- 
 ing 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 si- 
 lence, 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. 
 
Uncle William 89 
 
 Seated on a well-worn bench with a 
 glimpse of the bay in the distance, Wil- 
 liam 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 doinT' demanded 
 Andy. 
 
 "He 's been bein' sick," said Wil- 
 liam, 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 0' fever— I guess— inter- 
 mittent. Euns for a while, then lets up 
 a day or two, and then runs again. We 
 
90 Uncle William 
 
 had it once— don't yon remember?— the 
 whole crew, that time we broke down 
 off Madagascar 1 'Member how sick we 
 felt?" Uncle WUliam 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 jnst the same, but she says,— " 
 
 "Who says?" Andy whirled about. 
 
 "Why, she says — Sergia says. — 
 Did n't I jest tell you, Andy?" 
 
 "You did n'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 91 
 
 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 deci- 
 sively. 
 
 "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 apolo- 
 getically. "Does sound ridiculous, 
 don't it, Andy? I should n'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 
 
92 Uncle William 
 
 seem to get along mucli 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 thought 'bout day after to-mor- 
 row. ' ' 
 
 "It '11 cost a heap." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "You 've got it, I s'pose?" indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 "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." 
 
Uncle William 93 
 
 Andy wriggled a little. "You don't 
 hev to go," lie said feebly. 
 
 "If he needs me, I '11 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. Har- 
 riet 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." 
 
94 Uncle William 
 
 ''GrTiess they do," grumbled Andy. 
 
 "And a cow," went on Uncle Wil- 
 liam, "but there—" He checked him- 
 self. "Whatamltalkin'about? How 
 'd I ever keep a cow? What 'd I do 
 with the milk I I could n'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 '11 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 '11 let me. You see T 
 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. 
 
Uncle William 95 
 
 "1 
 
 '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 dol- 
 lar and a half and fed on it awhile. 
 "I shall hev to ask Harr'et," he 
 said. 
 
 "Now, I would n'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 '11 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 mort- 
 gages 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 
 
96 Uncle William 
 
 New York? "Where 'd 7 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 would 
 n'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 af- 
 fectionately. He looked a little puzzled. 
 "I dunno jest what I did start to say," 
 he said apologetically. "I was think- 
 in' what a store I set by you, Andy." 
 
 Andy's face softened a trifle. "Now, 
 look here, Willum, a mortgage is fair. 
 It would n't hurt you none, nor your 
 place—" 
 
 William shook his head. "I could 
 
Uncle William 97 
 
 n't do it, Andy. I would n't reelly 
 trust you with a mortgage. You might 
 get scared and foreclose some day if 
 I could n't pay the interest, and you 'd 
 be ashamed enough— doin' a thing like 
 that." 
 
 The next day Andy drew the hun- 
 dred 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 '11 get your interest reg'lar— six 
 per cent." 
 
 Andy's face held a kind of subdued 
 
98 Uncle William 
 
 gloom. He mourned not as those with- 
 out hope, but with a chastened expec- 
 tancy. To lend William money had al- 
 most the fine flavor of gambling. 
 
 He saw him off the following morn- 
 ing, with a sense of widened interests. 
 He carried, moreover, an additional 
 burden. "Eemember, 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' her- 
 rin'." Juno had been intrusted to him. 
 
 Andy grinned a sickly good-by. 
 "Good-by, Willum; I '11 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 crea- 
 ture like Juno weighed heavily on him. 
 He had proposed bringing her down to 
 
Uncle William 99 
 
 the house, thinking to shift the burden 
 on to Harriet, but Uncle William had 
 refused sternly. "She would n'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 'U get 
 fond of her. ' ' 
 
 Andrew had no rosy hopes of fond- 
 ness, but as he turned away from the 
 wharf, there seemed no place on the 
 island that would hold him so com- 
 fortably 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 jimiped 
 down to lick her leg. Then she sat 
 staring before her. Presently she 
 jumped back on the lounge and turned 
 her back to the room, looking out of the 
 
loo Uncle William 
 
 ■window and blinking from time to time. 
 The smoke of the steamer was dwind- 
 ling 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 re- 
 turned 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 
 
 |NCLE 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 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 back- 
 ing 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. 
 
 101 
 
102 Uncle William 
 
 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 cus- 
 toms move with the swift leisure of 
 those who live daily between Life and 
 the Deep Sea— without hurry and with- 
 out rest. 
 
 Uncle William watched it aU 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 
 
Uncle William io;j 
 
 place. Men took him in with a good- 
 hnmored 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 be- 
 longed to him. He was at home. He 
 had played his part in similar scenes 
 in hundreds of ports. The city bub- 
 bling and calling outside had no bewil- 
 derments 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— exorbit- 
 ant cab-men, who came down on their 
 fare if you stood by your box and re- 
 fused 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 the women of every port. 
 
104 Uncle William 
 
 They were a huge band, a great sister- 
 hood 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, hesi- 
 tating, 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 cguld trust. He signaled 
 to one with his eye. 
 
 "What '11 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 
 
Uncle William 105 
 
 moved along on the seat to make room. 
 "Come on, young man," 
 
 The youth climbed up with clumsy 
 foot. 
 
 "Tou might know of a job," sug- 
 gested Uncle William. "He looks 
 strong and willin'." 
 
 The man nodded back. "I '11 keep 
 an eye on him, sir. ' ' The van rumbled 
 away and Uncle William faced the 
 crowd 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 
 
io6 Uncle William 
 
 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 dis- 
 turb 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 
 
 J 
 
Uncle William 107 
 
 door, gentle as a woman's, bronglit 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, star- 
 ing at him with wide eyes. "Who— 
 are— you?" he said. The words were 
 a whisper. 
 
io8 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William's smile deepened. "I 
 guess ye knowme 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 for- 
 ward 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 
 
Uncle William 109 
 
 "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 flut- 
 tered, and fell at last to even beats. 
 The tense muscles relaxed. The parted 
 lips closed with a half -smile. 
 
 Uncle William bent forward, watch- 
 ing 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. 
 
■^N 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 Wil- 
 liam 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. 
 
 Eeproach filled the artist's eyes. 
 "You 've not lain down all night!" 
 
 "Did n't need to," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. He got to his feet briskly. "I 
 slep' a good deal comin' down in the 
 boat. There wa'n't a great deal goin' 
 
 110 
 
Uncle William 
 
 III 
 
 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 con- 
 sidabul 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 shin- 
 ing face. "It seems good to hev suth- 
 in' bigger 'n a teacup to wash in," he 
 
112 Uncle William 
 
 said. "I like the hull ocean, myself, 
 but a tub does putty well. Now, just 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 '11 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 just 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. 
 
Uncle William 113 
 
 "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 doc- 
 tor?" 
 
 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 Hbout 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. 
 
114 Uncle William 
 
 "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 '11 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 '11 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 hide 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 
 
Uncle William 115 
 
 of rushing water. Uncle William re- 
 turned 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, dump- 
 ing 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 artiet, 
 a little uneasily. "But I don't believe 
 you can get in. " 
 
 Uncle William approached cau- 
 tiously. He pushed open the door and 
 looked in. He came back beaming, i 
 "The' 's quite a nice lot of room," h« 
 said, taking hold of the end of hig box , 
 and dragging it away. I 
 
n 6 Uncle William 
 
 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 reap- 
 peared with shining face. 
 
 "You reelly 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 some- 
 thing hot. He slipped a hand under 
 the young man's head, raising it while 
 he drank. 
 
Uncle William 117 
 
 The artist took Ms time— in slow, sur- 
 prised sips. "It 's good!" he said. 
 He released the cup slowly. 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "I 've been 
 overhaulin' your locker a little." 
 
 "You did n'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 '11 make 'most any- 
 thing tasty, I reckon. I 'U 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 '11 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 Wil- 
 
1 1 8 Uncle William 
 
 liam. "Must be 'most time for an- 
 other. ' ' He pulled out his great watch. 
 "Just about." He doled out the pill 
 •with careful hand. 
 
 The young man looked at the bottle. 
 "You have n'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, eayin' you was 
 sick— '-' 
 
Uncle William 1 1 g 
 
 "Sergia wrote you?" The young 
 man had turned away his eyes. "She 
 should not have done it. She had no 
 right—" 
 
 ' ' Why not r ' 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 un- 
 easily. "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." 
 
120 Uncle William 
 
 "She shall not do it." He spoke al- 
 most fiercely. 
 
 "There, there," said Uncle Williaili, 
 soothingly, "I would n'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 '11 
 talk it over when I come back. ' ' 
 
XI 
 
 IHEN he returned the artist 
 was awake. His eyes had 
 a clearer look. 
 Uncle William surveyed 
 them over the top of his parcels. "Feel- 
 in' better?" he said. 
 "Yes." 
 
 He carried the parcels into the next 
 room, and the artist heard him potter- 
 ing around and humming. He came out 
 presently in his shirt-sleeves. His 
 spectacles were mounted on the gray 
 tufts. "I Ve got a chowder goin '/'he 
 said. "You take another pill and then 
 you '11 be about ready to eat some of 
 it, when it 's done." 
 
 "Can I eat chowder?" The tone 
 was dubious, but meek. 
 
 121 
 
122 Uncle William 
 
 "You 'ye got all your teeth, hain't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then, I guess you can eat it." 
 
 "I have n't been eating much." 
 
 ' ' I should n 't think you had. ' ' Uncle 
 William spoke dryly. "You need n'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 
 just 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 Wil- 
 liam a long time to eat his portion, and 
 the artist fell asleep again, watching 
 
Uncle William 123 
 
 the rhythmic motion of the great jaw 
 as it went slowly back and forth. 
 
 "When he wakened again it was al- 
 most dark in the room. Uncle Wil- 
 liam 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 Wil- 
 liam 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!" 
 
 "Just that way," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "I did n't want to believe I 
 wa'n't al'ays goin' to be sick. I kep* 
 
124 Uncle William 
 
 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 beenl 
 Only I did n'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. 
 
Uncle William 125 
 
 "She did n'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 shS kept com- 
 ing back. She wanted me to marry 
 her, so she could stay and takq care- 
 of me." He was not looking at TJncle 
 William. 
 
 "And you would n't let her?" 
 
 "I could n't.— There was no mon^y," 
 he said at last. 
 
 Uncle William glanced about him in 
 the clear dusk. "Comf'tabul place, '^ 
 he said. 
 
 The artist flushed. "She pays the 
 r^nt, I suppose. They would have 
 turned me out long since. I have n't 
 asked, but I know she pays it. There is 
 no one else." 
 
126 Uncle William 
 
 "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, 
 would n't you?" 
 
 The artist held out a hand as if to 
 stop him. ' ' Not till I can pay her back, 
 every cent 1 ' ' 
 
 "Gruess you need another pill, 
 likely," said Uncle William. He got 
 Tip 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 '11 
 fix ye." 
 
Uncle William 127 
 
 The young man swallowed it almost 
 grudgingly. He lay back upon the pil- 
 low. "I can pay her the money, some- 
 time." His gaunt eyes were staring 
 into the dark. "But I can never make 
 up to her for the way I treated her." 
 
 "Mebbe she did n't mind," said Un- 
 cle "William, non-committally. "Some- 
 times they don't." 
 
 "Mind? She could n't help mind- 
 ing. I was a fiend to her. I did every- 
 thing 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 
 
128 Uncle William 
 
 take such a likin' tome. Mi a' been 
 on account o' my size— we was abouf 
 the same build. I 'd set and jaw at 
 him, callin' him names.— Don't suppose 
 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 would n't try it— not yet. 
 You wait till Sergia comes." 
 
 "Will she come?" 
 
Uncle William 129 
 
 "She 'd come to-niglit if she knew 
 you wanted her. You go to sleep, and 
 in the momin' you '11 take that other 
 pill." He lifted the pillow and turned 
 it over, patting it in place. * * Why, that 
 old 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 did n't know any- 
 thing about shakin' hands. He jest got 
 down and took my feet and hugged 'em. 
 It made me feel queer," said TJncle 
 William. "You do feel queer when 
 you hain't acted jest right." 
 
xn 
 
 I AN 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 '11 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 '11 go see her, myself, 
 byme-by," he said kindly. "Mebbe 
 she '11 come back with me." 
 
 130 
 
Uncle William 131 
 
 "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 lit- 
 tle. "That 's too bad now, ain't it! 
 But don't you mind. I wa 'n't jest cer- 
 tain I 'd let you see her to-day, any- 
 how." 
 
 "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 
 
132 Uncle William 
 
 William. " She '11 be to home this even- 
 in', won't she?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I '11 go see her." 
 
 The artist looked doubtful. 
 
 "Can't I go see her?" said TJncle 
 William. 
 
 "I was wondering whether you could 
 find the way. ' ' 
 
 * ' H 'm-m. Where 'd you say it was ? ' ' 
 
 "Eighteenth Street, near Broad- 
 way." 
 
 "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 suppose they 've 
 changed the lay of Broadway a gre* 
 deal?" 
 
 "No— not much." 
 
 "Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen'- 
 
Uncle William 133 
 
 ally do; and I can't get far out 0' the 
 way with this." He touched the com- 
 pass that hung from the fob of the 
 great watch. "I 've been putty much 
 all over the world with that. I reckon 
 it '11 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 '11 do 
 to see company." 
 
134 Uncle William 
 
 The young man stretched out a hand. 
 "I imist see her. I shall get up — " 
 
 ' ' There, there. I would n '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 '11 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. ' ' Bet- 
 ter 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 
 
Uncle William 135 
 
 his eye yielded to appreciation, "You 
 ought to have been a chef, Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 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 
 have 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 6' 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 plate about clean?" Uncle 
 William looked at it approv2g?^s_^^"It 
 
136 Uncle William 
 
 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 once 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 '11 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'?" 
 
Uncle William 137 
 
 "I mean, I don't know that they 're 
 hung." 
 
 "Well, I would n'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 
 scooeh down as well as anybody. It '11 
 seem kind o' good to see the old place. 
 I was thinkin' this mornin' I wish't 
 there was two-three rocks round some- 
 wheres. 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 
 
138 Uncle William 
 
 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. 
 
Uncle William 139 
 
 The artist turned a little impatiently, 
 "Hallo there!" 
 
 Uncle William stuck out his head. 
 "Want suthin'?" 
 
 "What are you doing?" said the ar- 
 tist. 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 admir- 
 ingly. "You 're great!" he said. 
 "How did you come to know enough 
 not to change?" 
 
 "I 've changed everything!" de- 
 
140 Uncle William 
 
 clared 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." 
 
xm 
 
 INCLE 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, thrust- 
 
 141 
 
142 Uncle William 
 
 ing 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 crea- 
 ture, out of doors. 
 
 Uncle William stood smiling at her. 
 "How do you know it 's me?" he said. 
 
 The girl laughed quietly. "There 
 could n'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 
 
Uncle William 143 
 
 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. 
 
144 Uncle William 
 
 "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 could n'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 judi- 
 cious,— "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 reelly need me." His tone 
 confided it to her. 
 
Uncle William 145 
 
 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 could n'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- 
 
146 Uncle William 
 
 morrow ? ' ' she said. Her lips closed on 
 the word gently. 
 
 "Not for a considabul spell." Uncle 
 WUliam shook his head. "He ain't 
 acted right." 
 
 "He was ill." 
 
 "He was sick," admitted Uncle Wil- 
 liam, ' ' —some. But it was some cussed- 
 ness, too. That ain't the main thing 
 though." Uncle William leaned nearer. 
 "He '11 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 
 had n't more 'n got 'em done, 'fore he 
 made wimmen." He beamed on her 
 genially. "He '11 get well a good deal 
 faster if the' 's suthin' he thinks he 
 wants and can't have." 
 
 "Yes.— How will yon keep him 
 
Uncle William 147 
 
 away?" A little twinkle sounded in 
 her voice. 
 
 "I '11 take him home with me," said 
 Uncle "William, "up to Arichat." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Well, in a day or two— soon 's it 's 
 safe. It '11 do him good to be up there. 
 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. Tou '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 1 ' ' His tone reduced them 
 
148 Uncle William 
 
 to mere art. But a thought hung on it. 
 "Where be they?" he asked. 
 
 "At the 'Exhibition of American Ar- 
 tists.' " It was the tone of sheer pride. 
 
 "They took 'em, did they?" said 
 William. 
 
 "They could n't help it. They sent 
 back one for lack of room, but he will 
 have four hung." 
 
 "That *s good. You have n'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 plan- 
 ning 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 149 
 
 Uncle William considered. "The' 
 ain't much to tell, I guess. He 's get- 
 tin' 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 yon 
 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 
 '11, like enough, stay with me all sum- 
 mer." 
 
 "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," 
 
150 Uncle William 
 
 she said, "It 's the best work he has 
 done." 
 
 "That '11 be good," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "But we won't count too mnch 
 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 would n't let me 
 do things for him, and he would n't 
 have a nurse, nor go to the hospital. "^ 
 She sighed a little. "He was very ob- 
 stinate." 
 
Uncle William 151 
 
 "Jest like a mule," assented Uncle 
 William. He was stroking the fingers 
 gently. "Bnt lie 's got a new driver 
 this time." He chuckled a little. 
 
 She looked up quickly. "Has he con- 
 sented to go?" 
 
 "Well, we 're goin'.— It comes to the 
 same thing I reckon," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. He was looking at the dark face 
 with the darker lines beneath the eyes. 
 "Tou '11 have an easier time," he said. 
 "It 's been putty hard on you." 
 
 ' ' Oh, I don't mind, ' ' quickly, ' ' —only 
 the misunderptandings— and the quar- 
 rels—" 
 
 "That was the fever," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "But I did n'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 
 
152 Uncle William 
 
 the old man, thoughtfully. "They 're 
 powerful tryin'. You feel better— a lit- 
 tle—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 dis- 
 eases in the calendar, that 's the one I 
 wovld n't take. Some on 'em you hev 
 the comfort of knowin' you '11 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 '11 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 '11 be comin' up to see us byme- 
 by, mebbe?" He looked at her hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "Do you think I could?" 
 
Uncle William 153 
 
 "Well, I dunno why not. He '11 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 think- 
 ing, her forehead a little wrinkled. 
 
154 Uncle William 
 
 ' ' They are nice girls and— Oh— ! ' ' the 
 forehead suddenly lifted, "you would 
 like it. There are sea-pieces— Mac- 
 Dowell'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 '11 have a 
 chanct to miss me a little. ' ' 
 
 She smiled at him reproachfully. 
 "We '11 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 
 
Uncle William 155 
 
 the tall figure. Now that the flower-like 
 face was turned away, she seemed 
 larger, more vigorous. "A regular 
 clipper, and built for all kinds of wea- 
 ther," said Uncle William as he fol- 
 lowed fast. "I would n't be afraid to 
 trust her anywheres. She 'd reef down 
 quick in a blow." He chuckled to him- 
 self. 
 She looked around. ' ' Here we are. ' ' 
 
xiv: 
 
 |HEY 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 inquir- 
 ingly. ' ' They hain 't begun ? ' ' 
 
 She shook her head. "They 're tun- 
 ing up. ' ' 
 
 His face lifted a little. "I reckoned 
 that could n'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. 
 
 156 
 
Uncle William 157 
 
 "I 'm going to have you sit here, quite 
 near the platform, where I can see 
 you." She looked at him a little anx- 
 iously. ''You don't need to stay if you 
 don't like it, you know." 
 
 "Oh, I shall like it fust-rate," he re- 
 sponded. "It looks like a real com- 
 f 'tabul chair to set in." 
 
 He seated himself in it and beamed 
 upon the room. The place she had se- 
 lected 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 for- 
 ward with a program. 
 
 Uncle William took it in pleased fin- 
 gers. He searched for his spectacles 
 
158 Uncle William 
 
 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 Mac- 
 Dowell 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 ex- 
 actly alike, with long white ribbons. 
 
 Uncle "William, his spectacles pushed up 
 on the tufts of hair, watched with ad- 
 miring glance as they escaped from the 
 
Uncle William 159 
 
 stage. He turned to his right-liand 
 neighbor, an old gentleman with white 
 hair and big, smooth, soft hands, who 
 had watched the performance with gen^ 
 tie 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 plat- 
 form and sat down near her grandfa- 
 ther, the lilies and the long white rib- 
 bons 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 foUpwed— young girls 
 and old ones, and a youth with a violin 
 that fluttered and wailed and grew har- 
 monious at last as the youth forgot him- 
 
i6o Uncle William 
 
 self. 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 chil- 
 dren. He would have looked the same 
 had they played on jews '-harps and tin 
 horns. But he was enjoying it. SMe 
 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 be- 
 wildered, and a little disappointed, she 
 thought. "They got 'em all done?— I 
 did n't hear that 'Wanderin' Iceberg' 
 one," he said regretfully. "I cal'ated 
 to listen to that. But I was so inter- 
 ested in the children that I clean for- 
 got—They 're nice children." He 
 looked about the room where they were 
 laughing and talking in groups. ' ' Time 
 to go, is it?" 
 
Uncle William i6i 
 
 "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 '11 stay." He settled back com- 
 fortably. 
 
 "That 's right. I must go now and 
 speak to some of the mothers. They 
 only eome for the first half. They will 
 fee going home. ' ' She moved away. 
 
 Unele William's eyes followed her 
 admiringly. He turned to the old gen- 
 tleman beside him. "Nice girl," he 
 said. 
 
 "She is a fine teacher," responded 
 the old gentleman. ' ' She has not been 
 here long, but she has a good following. 
 She has temperament." 
 
1 62 Uncle William 
 
 "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. Ye 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 Wil- 
 liam—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.' 
 
Uncle William 163 
 
 Now mebbe you know what that means 
 — /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?— Eight in the center 
 here?" Uncle William was interested. 
 
 "Well, not just here— a little out. 
 But they 're gone," The old gentle- 
 man 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 suppose," assented 
 
164 Uncle William 
 
 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 0' 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 0' 
 drowsy whilst it 's bein' read. ' ' 
 
 The old gentleman had laughed out 
 genially. "MacDowell does n't write 
 poetry, except short things — lines for 
 headings. He makes it on the piano." 
 
 "Makes an old white-pine tree?" de- 
 manded Uncle William. 
 
 "Well— something like that." 
 
 Uncle William returned to his pro- 
 gram. ' ' There '11 be a ' water-lily, ' then, 
 will the"? and an 'eagle,' and a 'medder 
 brook,' and a 'wanderin' iceberg,' and 
 a 'pair 0' bars'?" He looked up with 
 
Uncle William 165 
 
 a swift twinkle, "And like enough a 
 rooster or two, and a knock-kneed 
 horse. I keep a-wonderin' what that 
 wanderin ' iceberg '11 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 audi- 
 ence 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 
 
1 66 Uncle William 
 
 by the famous baritone— "Fifteen men 
 on a dead man's chest! Yo ho! Yo 
 ho ! " Uncle William sat up. Joy radi- 
 ated from him. He clutched his chair 
 with both hands and beamed. The au- 
 dience 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 ' 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 shiv- 
 
Uncle William 167 
 
 ery-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 Mac- 
 Dowell— 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 aia '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 
 
1 68 Uncle William 
 
 —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 grit- 
 ting and sliding and tumbling among 
 the notes. The sounds stopped alto- 
 gether. The youth sat staring before 
 him. Applause broke from the audi- 
 ence. 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. 
 
 "AUdone. How did you like it?" 
 
Uncle William 169 
 
 "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 did n't get there, then?" The 
 man laughed. 
 
 "Not to the iceberg." Uncle Wil- 
 liam 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 
 is n't cold enough." 
 
 " 'T ain't the cold," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam, 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 
 
170 Uncle William 
 
 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 wUd ap- 
 plause, half-way, and he bowed sol- 
 emnly from his hips. There was a 
 weary look in his face. 
 
 Uncle William looked him over criti- 
 cally. "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. Look 's if they was goin' to cry 
 when you was feedin' 'em sugar. They 
 
Uncle William 171 
 
 gen 'ally like it real well, too."— He 
 eonsiilted 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, scan- 
 ning 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. 
 
172 Uncle William 
 
 "The 'Depths of the Ocean'— you liked 
 that best, did n'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 could n'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 did n't jest know whether 
 to soar up aloft or dive considabul 
 deep. It kep' me kind o' teeterin' be- 
 twixt 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." 
 
Uncle William 173 
 
 1(1 
 
 '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 under- 
 stand him— when they know which it 
 is." Her smile had grown frank, like 
 a boy's. "But which did you like best 
 of all?" 
 
 "Of the hull thing?" he demanded. 
 He looked down at his program. ' ' They 
 was all nice," he said slowly— "real 
 nice. I dunno when I 've heard nicer 
 singin' 'n playin'. But I reckon that 
 one was about the nicest of the lot." 
 He laid his big thmnb on a number. 
 
 Sergia and the old gentleman bent to 
 look. It was the Beethoven sonata. 
 
174- Uncle William 
 
 Sergia glanced at the old gentleman. 
 He met the glance, smiling. "A tribute 
 to our hostess," he said. 
 
 "A tribute to Beethoven," returned 
 Sergia. Then, after a moment, she 
 laughed softly. Sergia was not ad- 
 dicted to MacDowell. 
 
XV 
 
 NCLE WILLIAM crept into 
 the rooms like a thief, bnt 
 the artist was sleeping 
 soundly. He did not stir 
 as the latch, gave a little click in the 
 lock. ' ' That 's good, ' ' said Uncle Wil- 
 liam, He had slipped off his shoes and 
 was in his stocking feet. He stole over 
 to the bed and stood looking down at 
 the thin face. It was a little drawn, 
 with hollow eyes. "He '11 perk con- 
 sidabul when he hears about them pic- 
 ters," said Uncle William. 
 
 But in the morning when, after 
 breakfast, Uncle William announced 
 his great news, the artist ignored it. 
 "Is she coming— Sergia?" 
 
 175 
 
176 • Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William scowled his forehead 
 in recollection. ."Now, I can't seem to 
 remember 't she said so." 
 
 "What did she say?" The tone was 
 imperative. 
 
 "Well, she asked how you was get- 
 lin' along. I told her that— as well as I 
 eould." 
 
 "Did n't you tell her I wanted to see 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes, I told her that." Uncle Wil- 
 liam's voice was impartial. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "She did n't seem to think much of 
 it. I guess if I was you I 'd hurry up 
 and get well so 's 't I could go see her." 
 
 The artist's face had grown hard. 
 "I shall not go until I can carry her 
 the money in my hand— all that I owe 
 her." 
 
 "Is 't a good deal?" asked Uncle 
 William. 
 
Uncle William 177 
 
 But the artist liad turned his face to 
 the wall. 
 
 Uncle William looked down' at him 
 with a kind of compassionate justice. 
 **If I was you—" 
 
 A whistle sounded and an arm, hold- 
 ing a letter, was thrust in at the door. 
 
 "What is it?" The artist had 
 turned. He half raised himself, reach- 
 ing out a hand. "What is it? Give it 
 to me." 
 
 Uncle William examined the lines 
 slowly. "Why, it seems to be for me," 
 he said kindly. "I dunno anybody 
 that 'd be writin' to me." 
 
 He found his glasses and opened it, 
 studying the address once or twice and 
 shaking his head. 
 
 The artist had sunk back, indifferent. 
 
 "Why!" The paper rustled in Un- 
 cle William's hand. He looked up. 
 "She 's gone!" he said. 
 
 12 
 
178 Uncle William 
 
 The artist started up, glaring at him. 
 
 Uncle William shook his head, look- 
 ing at him pityingly. "Like as not we 
 sha 'n 't see her again, ever. ' ' 
 
 The artist's hand groped. "What is 
 it?" he whispered. 
 
 "She 's gone— left in the night." 
 
 "She will come back." The gaunt 
 eyes were fixed on hisi face. 
 
 Uncle William shook his head again, 
 returning the gaze with a kind of stern- 
 ness. "I dunno," he says. "When a 
 man treats her like Andy has, she must 
 kind o' hate him— like pizen." 
 
 The artist sat up, a look of hope, 
 faint and perplexed, dawning beneath 
 his stare. He leaned forward, speak- 
 ing slowly. "What are you talking 
 about!" 
 
 "I 'm talMn' about that." Uncle 
 William held out the letter. "It 's 
 from Andy, and Juno 's left him. Took 
 
Uncle William 179 
 
 to the woods. She could n't stan' hav- 
 in' him round, I guess." Uncle Wil- 
 liam chuckled a little. 
 
 The young man lay back. He mois- 
 tened his lips a little with his tongue. 
 "You were talking about her?" The 
 words were a whisper. 
 
 Uncle William looked at him over his 
 glasses. "Did n't you hear me say 
 so?" 
 
 There was a long silence. "I 
 thought you meant— Sergia." 
 
 "Sergial— What!" Uncle William 
 looked down at the letter. A light 
 dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it 
 on the young man. A chuckle sounded 
 somewhere and grew in little rolls, 
 tumbling up from the depths. "You 
 thought I meant— her!" Uncle Wil- 
 liam's sides shook gently. "Lord, no! 
 Sergia ain't run away. She '11 stan' 
 
i8o Uncle William 
 
 by till the last man 's hung. She 's 
 that kind." 
 
 "I know." The tone was jealous. 
 "I ought to know." 
 
 "Yes, you ought to know." Uncle 
 William left the moral to take care of 
 itself. He did up the work, singing 
 hopefully as he rolled about the room, 
 giving things what he called '*a lick and 
 a promise." 
 
 "You were late last night," said 
 the artist, watching him. 
 
 "Yes, considabul late," said Uncle 
 William. He had come upon another 
 pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture 
 on the shelf, and was brushing it up, 
 whistling softly. "You must 'a' 
 smoked a good deal," he said, rapping 
 out the ashes. "I 've been sweepin' 
 'em up ever since I come." 
 
 "I did. It helped me forget." 
 
Uncle William 1 8 1 
 
 *'It did n't help you get well, I 
 reckon," said Uncle William. "What 
 you need," he added, "is fresh air and 
 wind— and rocks." 
 
 The artist mused. "It would seem 
 good." 
 
 The old man had paused in his 
 work. "Will you go— to-morrow?" 
 
 The artist looked about him, hesi- 
 tating. "I could n't get ready— " 
 
 "I 'II get ye ready." 
 
 "We might— in a week?" 
 
 "I can't wait," said Uiicle William, 
 decisively. "I 've got to look up Juno. 
 She '11 like enough get desperate— 
 drown herself the first thing I know. 
 I 'm goin' to start to-morrow. If you 
 want to go along, I '11 pack ye up." 
 
 The young man looked at him help- 
 lessly. "I can't get along without 
 you. You know I need you." 
 
 "Yes, I know you need me," said 
 
1 82 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William. "I kind o' counted on 
 that." He began to pack vigorously, 
 emerging now and then out of the dust 
 and clatter to beam on the young man. 
 "Now, don't you worry a mite. You 're 
 goin' to get well and earn money and 
 come back and pay her, and every- 
 thing 's comin' out all right." 
 
 In the afternoon tickets arrived from 
 Sergia. There was a line with them, 
 asking Uncle William to call for her, 
 at eight, that evening. The artist 
 looked at the tickets a little enviously. 
 "I should like to go, myself," he said. 
 "It 's the first view." He glanced at 
 Uncle William appealingly. 
 
 The old man ignored it. "You 
 could n't go, noways," he said; "not 
 if we 're goin' to start to-morrow," 
 
 The artist sighed. He was sitting in 
 an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket, a 
 
Uncle William 183 
 
 pillow behind his head. "I don't sup- 
 pose I could. ' ' He sighed again. 
 
 Uncle William looked at him keenly. 
 "The' 's a good deal of leg-work to an 
 exhibit, ain't they?" 
 
 "Yes." The artist smiled faintly. 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "I thought 
 so. AVell, it 's all you can do to set in 
 a chair with a piller behind you. I 
 would n't say no more about picters if 
 I was you. ' ' He took down the mirror 
 and laid it between two cushions, hold- 
 ing it in place while he reached for the 
 knot. "I don't suppose you have the 
 least idee how you look," he said. "I 
 cal'ate to have you look a sight bet- 
 ter 'n that 'fore Sergia sees you." 
 
 The artist's face flushed. "Give me 
 the glass." 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. "I've 
 got to hustle to get these things done." 
 He drew the sailor's knot firmJy in 
 
184 Uncle William 
 
 place. "I cal'ate to have everything 
 ready so 's to get an early start." 
 
 "She would n't mind how I looked," 
 said the young man, defensively. 
 
 "Mebbe not." Uncle William was 
 gathering together the trifles from the 
 shelf and table, and knotting them in 
 a table-spread. "You want to save this 
 out?" he asked indifferently. It was a 
 picture of the girl in an oval frame. 
 
 The yqung man seized it. He was 
 looking at it with warm eyes. 
 
 Uncle William glanced down on them 
 from his height. "Mebbe not," he 
 said gently, "but I reckon she 'd hate 
 to see ye lookin' like that. It 's about 
 all I can stan' to see ye, myself." 
 
XVI 
 
 quickly. 
 
 |HE girl looked up from her 
 copying. Uncle William 
 stood in tlie doorway, beam- 
 ing on her. She got up 
 "You are early." 
 Uncle William held out a hand de- 
 tainingly. "You set right down and 
 go to work. I come early a-purposa I 
 thought I 'd like to set a spell and 
 watch ye. ' ' 
 
 The girl resumed her copying. The 
 lamp beside her shed its dull glow on 
 the page, and on her face and neck, as 
 she bent to it. The dark room rose 
 mysteriously behind her. Uncle Wil- 
 liam settled himself in his chair with a 
 breath of relief. 
 
 185 
 
1 86 Uncle William 
 
 When she had finished the copying 
 she came across to him. "It is done 
 now." She smiled to him through the 
 dim light. 
 
 "Keeps you workin' pretty steady, 
 don't it?" said Uncle William. 
 
 "Yes." There was no complaint in 
 the word. 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "I reckoned 
 I 'd find you doin' it. That 's why I 
 come early. I kind o ' wanted a chance 
 to set— where 't was quiet and things 
 wa 'n 't worryin'." 
 
 She leaned forward. " Is he worse ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, not worse, so to speak, but 
 kind o' triflin' — wantin' his own way a 
 good deal. If I was home, I would ni't 
 mind it a mite. I 'd go out-door and 
 take two-three good whiffs, look at the 
 water and see how things was comin' 
 on. I 'd be all right in no time. But 
 here—" He drew a kind of caged 
 
Uncle William 187 
 
 breath. "It 's worse outdoor 'n 't 
 
 is m." 
 
 "You mind the noise, doni't yon?" 
 She was looking at h i mi sympatheiti- 
 cally. 
 
 "Well, 't ain't the noise so much, — 
 I 've heard the ocean roar,— it 's folks. 
 Pesters me havin' 'em round— so many 
 on 'em." 
 
 Her look changed to a little wonder, 
 "I should think you would like to be 
 with them. You help them." She 
 spoke the words softly, almost shyly. 
 The clear glow of her eyes rested on 
 his face. 
 
 The face showed no pride. "Yes, I 
 reckon I help 'em— some. There 's gen- 
 'ally suthin' to do, if you 're where 
 folks be ; but I have to get away from 
 'em.— Can't breathe if I don't.— And 
 there ain't any place to go to. I was 
 feelin' a good deal cooped up to-night, 
 
1 88 Uncle William 
 
 and then I thought o' your place here." 
 He moved his hand toward the dark 
 recesses. "It 's kind o' clean and 
 high." 
 
 They sat in silence, the girl's head 
 resting on her hand. 
 
 Uncle William watched her face in 
 the half-light. "You 're gettin' tired 
 and kind o' peaked." 
 
 She looked up. "I am resting." 
 
 "Yes— yes, I know how it is. You 
 stan' all you can and byme-by you 
 come to a place you can rest in, and 
 you jest rest— hard." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You ought to 'a' asked somebody to 
 help ye," said Uncle William, gently. 
 
 "There was n't any one." 
 
 "There was me." 
 
 "Yes. I did ask you when I could n't 
 go on." 
 
 ' ' That wa 'n 't the way. Somebody 
 
Uncle William i8g 
 
 would 'a' helped— your folks, like 
 enough—" He stopped, remembering. 
 
 ' ' They are dead. ' ' 
 
 He nodded. "I know. He told me. 
 But I 'd forgot— for a minute. They 
 been dead long?" 
 
 "Two years. It was before I came 
 away— at home, in Russia. We were 
 all coming— father and mother and I, 
 and my brother. Then they died; but 
 I wanted to be free." S|[^ had flung 
 out her arms with a light movement. 
 
 "It 's a dretful good place to get 
 away from," said Uncle William. 
 "Nice folks come from there, too.— I 
 never saw one that wa 'n 't glad to 
 come," he added. i 
 
 She smiled. "I was glad; and I am 
 
 glad I came here. It has been hard— 
 
 a little— but I found Alan." Her voice 
 
 sang. 
 
 "Some folks would say that was the 
 
I go Uncle William 
 
 "wust of it, ' ' said Uncle William. "You 
 found him and he fell sick, and you had 
 3iim to take care on — cross as two sticks 
 some of the time." He regarded her 
 mildly. 
 
 "You don't think so," she said. 
 
 "Well, mebbe not, mebbe not," re- 
 sponded Uncle William. "I 'm sort o' 
 queer, perhaps." 
 
 She had turned to him half wistfully. 
 "Don't you think I might see him— just 
 a little while?" 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. 
 "You 've been too good to him. That 's 
 the wust of wimmen folks. What he 
 needs now is a tonic— suthin' kind o' 
 bitter." He chuckled. "He's got me." 
 
 She smiled. "When are you going 
 to take him away?" 
 
 * ' To-morrow. ' ' 
 
 She started. "It is very soon," she 
 said softly. 
 
Uncle William 191 
 
 ' ' Sooner the better, ' ' said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "It '11 do us both, good to smell 
 the sea." He pulled out the great 
 watch. "Must be 'most time to be 
 startin '. " He peered at it uncertainly. 
 
 "Yes, we must go." She rose and 
 brought her hat, a fragile thing of lace 
 and mist, and a little lace mantle with 
 long floating ends. She put them on 
 before the mirror that hung above the 
 table where the copying lay, giving lit- 
 tle turns and touches of feminine plea- 
 sure. 
 
 Uncle "William's eyes followed her 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 She turned to him, her face glowing, 
 starlike, out of the lace and mist. 
 "You 're laughing at me," she said, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 ' ' No, I wa 'n 't laughing, so to speak, ' ' 
 returned Uncle William. "I was think- 
 in' what a sight o* comfort there is in 
 
192 Uncle William 
 
 a bunnit. If men folks wore 'em I 
 reckon they 'd take life easier." He 
 placed his hat firmly on the gray tufts. 
 "That 's one 0' the cur 'us things— 
 about 'em. ' ' They were going down the 
 long flight of stairs and he had placed 
 his hand protectingly beneath her arm. 
 "That 's one 0' the cur 'us things — how 
 different they be, men and women. 
 I 've thought about it a good many 
 times, how it must 'a' tickled the Lord 
 a good deal when he found how differ- 
 ent they turned out— made o' the same 
 kind of stuff, so." 
 
 . "Don't you suppose he meant it! 
 She was smiling at him under the frill- 
 ing lace. 
 
 "Well, like enough," returned Uncle 
 William, thoughtfully. "It 's like the 
 rest o' the world— kind 0' comical and 
 big. Like enough he did plan it that 
 way." 
 
xvn 
 
 I HE room was filled with 
 the hum of light— faces and 
 flowers and color every- 
 where. Uncle William 
 walked among them erect, overtopping 
 the crowd, his gaze, for the most part, 
 on the sky-line. Sergia, heside him, 
 seemed a slight figure. Glances fol- 
 lowed them as they went, amused or 
 curious or a little admiring. Uncle 
 William, oblivious to the glances and to 
 the crowd that opened before him, and 
 closed silently behind the great figure, 
 beamed upon it all. He was used to 
 making his way through a crowd un- 
 hindered. To Sergia the experience 
 was more novel, and she watched the 
 
 13 193 
 
194 Uncle William 
 
 crowd and the pictures and tlie old man 
 moving serene among them, with 
 amused eyes. Once she called his at- 
 tention to a celebrated painter in the 
 crowd. Uncle William's eye rested im- 
 partially upon him for a moment and 
 returned to its sky-line. "He looks to 
 me kind o' pindlin'. One o' the best, 
 is he?" 
 
 "He 's not strong, you mean?" 
 
 "Well, not strong, and not much to 
 him— as if the Lord was kind o' 
 skimped for material. Is that one o' 
 his picters?" 
 
 Her eye followed his hand. ' ' Alan 's ! 
 Come." They moved quickly to it 
 across the larger room. ' ' They are all 
 here. ' ' Her glance had swept the walls. 
 "In the best light, too." She moved 
 eagerly from one to the other. "See 
 how well they are hung. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William's eye surveyed them.- 
 
Uncle William 195 
 
 ' ' Middlin ' plumb, ' ' lie assented. ' ' That 
 fu'ther one looks to me a leetle mite 
 off the level. It 's the one o ' my house, 
 too. ' ' He moved toward it and straight- 
 ened the frame with careful hand, then 
 he stepped back,, gazing at it with pride. 
 "Putty good, ain't it?" he said. 
 
 She smiled quietly. "Perfect. He 
 has never done anything so good." 
 
 "It is a putty nice house,'* said 
 Uncle William. His eye dwelt on it 
 fondly. "I 'd a 'most forgot how nice 
 it was. You see that little cloud there 
 —that one jest over the edge? That 
 means suthin' 'fore mornin'." He 
 lifted his hand to it. "I would n 't trust 
 a sky like that— not without reefin' 
 down good." He drew a breath. 
 "Cur 'us how it makes you feel right 
 there ! " he said. " I 'd a 'most forgot. ' ' 
 He glanced at the moving crowd a little 
 hostilely and drew another deep breath. 
 
196 Uncle William 
 
 "The atmosphere is fine," said the 
 girl. She was studying it with half- 
 shut eyes, her head thrown a little back. 
 "It is clear and deep. You can almost 
 breathe it. ' ' 
 
 "It is a good climate," assented 
 Uncle William. "You couldn't get sick 
 there if you tried. Can't hardly die." 
 He chuckled a little. " Sam'l Gruchy 's 
 been tryin' for six year now. He was 
 ninety-seven last month. We don't 
 think nuthin' 0' roundin' out a hunderd 
 up there— not the cheerful ones. 
 'Course if you fret, you can die 'most 
 anywhere. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, if you fret." The girl was 
 looking at him with pleased eyes. "I 
 don't suppose you 've ever known what 
 it was to fret?" 
 
 "Me? Lord, yes! I ust to fret 
 about everything— fretted for fear it 
 would blow and for fear it would n't 
 
Uncle William igy 
 
 blow." His eyes were on the shifting 
 green waves. "I never put down a net 
 nor a lobster-pot that I did n't see 'em 
 bein' chewed up or knocked to pieces. 
 I 'd see a shark a-swimmin' right 
 through a big hole— rip-p— tear. I 
 could see it as plain as if I was down 
 there under the water— all kind o' 
 green and cool, and things swimmin' 
 through it. I can see it jest the same 
 now if I shut my eyes, only it 's fishes 
 I see swimmin' into my net now— shoals 
 of 'em. The' ain't a shark in sight." 
 He was looking down at her, smiling. 
 
 She nodded. "You 're an optimist 
 now. ' ' 
 
 He stared a little. "No, I don't 
 reckon I 'm anything that sounds like 
 that, but I do take life comf 'table. The' 
 ain't a place anywheres 'round to set 
 and rest, is the'? You look to me kind 
 o' used up." 
 
1 98 Uncle William 
 
 "I am tired— a little. Come. There 
 won't be any one here." She led the 
 way into a small room beyond. A bench 
 facing the large room was vacant, and 
 they sat down on it. Through the vista 
 of the open door they could see two of 
 Alan's pictures. They sat in silence 
 for a few minutes, watching the crowd 
 come and go in front of the pictures. 
 She turned to him at last with a little 
 smile. "They are making a hit," she 
 said. 
 
 "Be they?" He peered at them in- 
 tently. His face softened. "They 'd 
 o't to. They 're nice picters." 
 
 "Yes." She had started forward 
 a little, her breath coming swiftly. 
 "Do you see that man— the tall 
 one with the gray hair and pointed 
 beard?" 
 
 Uncle William adjusted his specta- 
 cles. "That kind o' peaked one, you 
 
Uncle William 199 
 
 mean, that dips along some like a gov- 
 ernment lighter?" 
 
 She laughed out, her hands moving 
 with little gestures of pleasure. ' ' That 's 
 the one. I know him." 
 
 "Do you?" Uncle William looked 
 at him again politely. ' ' He has a good 
 deal 0' trimmin' on, but he looks like a 
 nice sort 0' man." 
 
 "He is— he is— if he 's the one I 
 think-" 
 
 The man, who wore on his coat the 
 decoration of several orders, had 
 turned a little and was looking back 
 over the crowd. 
 
 The girl clasped her hands tightly. 
 "Oh, it is," she said under her breath. 
 "It is." 
 
 Uncle William looked down almost 
 jealously. "You set a good deal 0' 
 store by seein' him," he said. 
 
 "It is n't that. I like him, yes, but 
 
2 00 Uncle William 
 
 he knows good work. If he really takes 
 them in, he '11 not let them go." 
 
 Uncle "William adjusted his specta- 
 cles again. ' ' You mean— ' ' 
 
 "He will buy them, yes. Hush!" 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 The man had turned back to the pic- 
 tures. He lifted a pair of eyeglasses 
 that swung at the end of a long chain 
 and placed them on his nose. He looked 
 again at the picture before him. The 
 glasses dropped from his nose, and he 
 dipped to the catalogue he held in his 
 hand. 
 
 Uncle "William's glance followed him 
 a little uneasily. "You mean he '11 buy 
 my house ? " he asked. 
 
 She nodded, her face overflowing 
 with happiness. 
 
 Uncle William surveyed it. "I was 
 cal'atin' to have that one myself." He 
 said it almost grudgingly. 
 
Uncle William 201 
 
 "You were? Could you?" She 
 faced him, open-eyed. 
 
 ' ' Could n't I have it as well as him ? ' ' 
 He nodded toward the man in the dis- 
 tance intent on his catalogue. 
 
 The girl's brow wrinkled a little. 
 "He is rich," she said. "I did n't 
 know—" 
 
 "Well, I ain't rich," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam, "but I reckon I could scrape to- 
 gether enough to pay for a picter." 
 
 The girl's face lighted. "Of course, 
 Alan would rather you had it. And he 
 may buy one of the others. ' ' 
 
 The man had moved on a little, out 
 of sight. The picture remained facing 
 them. For a minute the crowd had 
 parted in front of it and they saw it at 
 the end of a long pathway. Uncle Wil- 
 liam drew a proud breath. ' ' How much 
 will it cost?" he said. 
 
 She took up the catalogue from her 
 
202 Uncle William 
 
 lap and opened it, glancing down the 
 page. "It must be here — somewhere. 
 Yes, this is it— 'The House on the 
 Rocks,' $2000." 
 
 Uncle William's jaw clicked a little 
 as it came together. He held out a 
 hand. "Will you just let me look at- 
 that a minute?" he said. 
 
 He ran his great finger down the 
 page. When it came to the $2000, he 
 pressed it a little with his thumb, as if 
 expecting it to rub off. Then he looked 
 at her, shaking his head. "It 's a leetle 
 higher 'n I can go," he said slowly. "I 
 wa'n't expectin' it would cost so much. 
 You see, the house itself did n't cost 
 more 'n three hunderd, all told, and I 
 thought a picter of it would n't cost 
 more 'n five or six." 
 
 "Five or six hundred?" Her eyes 
 laughed. 
 
 Uncle William shook his head guilt- 
 
Uncle William 203 
 
 ily. "Not more 'n five or six dollars," 
 he said. "I reckon mebbe I did put it 
 a leetle low." A smile had bloomed 
 again in his face. "If he can pay the 
 price, he '11 have to have it, I reckon— 
 for all o' me." 
 
 * ' Yes, he can pay it. He is very rich, 
 and he cares for pictures. He has hun- 
 dreds. He buys them everywhere— in 
 Paris, London, St. Petersburg, Italy- 
 It only depends on whether he 
 likes-" 
 
 The man had come into view again 
 and was studying the picture, dipping 
 toward it in little sidewise flights. 
 Uncle "William watched the pantomime 
 jealously. "How 'd you come to know 
 him?" he asked. 
 
 "He knew my mother. He had 
 known her from a girl. I think he 
 loved her," she said quietly, her eyes 
 on the man. "He was on the 
 
2 04 Uncle William 
 
 legation at St. Petersburg— See! 
 He does like them!" Sh.e had leaned 
 forward. 
 
 Uncle William glanced up. 
 
 The man was standing a little re- 
 moved from the painting, his arms 
 folded, his head thrown back, oblivious 
 to the crowd. 
 
 She rose quickly. "I am going to 
 speak to him," she said. "Wait here 
 for me." She passed into th.e chang- 
 ing throng that filled the room beyond. 
 
 Uncle William waited patiently, his 
 eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope of 
 the doorway. When she reappeared in 
 it, her face was alight mth color. 
 "Come." She held out her hand. "I 
 want you to meet him. He likes them 
 —oh, very much!" She pressed her 
 hands together lightly. * ' I think he will 
 buy them— two, at least." 
 
 Uncle William got to his feet. "I 
 
Uncle William 205 
 
 suppose ye told him about Alan and 
 about my place." 
 
 She stopped short, looking at him re- 
 proachfully. "Not a word," she said 
 —"not a single word!" 
 
 Uncle William's countenance fell. 
 "Wa'n't that what you went out for?" 
 
 "No; and you must not mention it. 
 I only told him that you liked them." 
 
 "Can't I even say that 's my house 
 out there?" He waved his hand. 
 
 "Never!" It was energetic. "You 
 would spoil it all." 
 
 * ' Will it hurt it any to be my house ? ' ' 
 he asked, a little sore. 
 
 * ' You know it is not' that. ' ' She laid 
 her hand on his arm affectionately. 
 "We shall tell him all about it some 
 day; but now, just now, while he is 
 making up his mind, it would distract 
 him. He wants to look at them as art. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William sighed gently. "Well, 
 
2o6 Uncle William 
 
 I '11 do my best, but it 's goin' agen' 
 nature not to bust right out with it." 
 They passed into the larger room. On 
 the opposite side the man was standing, 
 his eyeglasses on his nose, looking ex- 
 pectantly toward the door. 
 
 When he saw them, he smiled and 
 moved forward with suave grace. 
 
xvin 
 
 I HEY met midway in tlie 
 room. The two tall men 
 stood facing each other, 
 overtopping the crowd. The 
 Frenchman held out his hand. "I am 
 glad to meet yon, ' ' he said. 
 
 Uncle William took the thin hand in 
 his hearty one. "I am glad to meet 
 you," he responded. "Sergia 's been 
 tellin ' me about you. She said you liked 
 the picter over yonder." Uncle Wil- 
 liam^s thumb described the arc of a cir- 
 cle. 
 
 The Frenchman's eye followed it. 
 "I do," he said, cordially. "Don't 
 you?" 
 "Well, it 's middlin' good." UncU 
 
 207 
 
2o8 Uncle William 
 
 William spoke craftily. They were 
 moving toward it. 
 
 "It 's great!" said the Frenchman. 
 He swung his eyeglasses to his nose and 
 gazed at it. They came to a standstill 
 a little distance away. 
 
 "The house ain't much to boast on," 
 said Uncle William, modestly. 
 
 "The house?" The Frenchman 
 stared at him politely. 
 
 Uncle William motioned with his 
 hand. "It 's a kind o' ramshackle ol' 
 thing— no chimbley to speak of—" 
 
 The man's face cleared. "Oh, the 
 house— a mere hut!" He dismissed it 
 with a wave. 
 
 Uncle William's face wore a sub- 
 dued look. "It might be comfortable 
 inside," he hazarded after a silence. 
 
 The Frenchman stared again. ' ' Com- 
 fortable? Oh, without doubt." He 
 granted the point in passing. "But the 
 
Uncle William 209 
 
 color in the rocks— do you see?— and 
 the clear light and the sky— you see how 
 it lifts itself?" His long finger made 
 swift stabs here and there at the can- 
 vas. A little crowd had gathered near. 
 
 Uncle William pushed his spectacles 
 farther up on the tufts. His face 
 glowed. "The sky is all right," he 
 said, "if ye know how to take it; but ye 
 would n't trust a sky like that, would 
 ye?" 
 
 The Frenchman turned to him, blink- 
 ing a little. His glasses had slipped 
 from his nose. They hung dangling 
 from the end of the long chain. 
 ' ' Trust it ? " he said vaguely. " It 's the 
 real thing!" 
 
 Uncle William's face assumed an air 
 of explanation. "It 's good as fur as 
 it goes. The' ain't anything the matter 
 with it— not anything you can lay your 
 finger on— not till you get over there, a 
 u 
 
2 I o Uncle William 
 
 little east by sou 'east. Don't you see 
 anything the matter over there?" He 
 asked the question with cordial interest. 
 
 The Frenchman held the eyeglass 
 chain in his fingers. He swung the 
 glasses to his nose and stared at the 
 spot indicated. 
 
 Uncle William regarded him hope- 
 fully. 
 
 The glasses dropped. He faced about, 
 shaking his head. "I 'm afraid I don't 
 see it." He spoke in polite depreca- 
 tion. ' ' It seems to me very nearly per- 
 fect." He faced it again. "I can 
 breathe that air." 
 
 "So can I," said Uncle "William. 
 "So can I." 
 
 They stood looking at it in silence. 
 "It '11 be fo'-five hours before it 
 strikes," said Uncle William, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Before it—" The Frenchman had 
 
Uncle William 211 
 
 half turned. The rapt look in his face 
 wrinkled a little. 
 
 "Before it strikes," repeated Uncle 
 William. "That cloud I p'inted out to 
 you means business. ' ' 
 
 The Frenchman looked again. The 
 wrinkles crept to the comers of his 
 eyes. He turned them on Uncle. Wil- 
 liam. "I see. You were speaking of 
 the weather?" 
 
 "Wa'n't you?" demanded Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "Well— partly. Yes, partly. But 
 I 'm afraid I was thinking how well it 
 is done. ' ' His face grew dreamy. ' ' To 
 think that paint and canvas and a few 
 careless strokes—" 
 
 "He worked putty hard," broke in 
 Uncle William. Sergia's hand on his 
 arm stayed him. He remained open- 
 mouthed, staring at his blunder. 
 
 But the Frenchman had not perceived 
 it. He accepted the correction with a 
 
2 12 Uncit: William 
 
 cordial nod. "Of course— infinite pa- 
 tience. And then a thing like that ! " he 
 lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was 
 a kind of courteous salute— the obei- 
 sance due to royalty. 
 
 Uncle William watched it a little 
 grudgingly. "They 're putty good 
 rocks," he said— "without paint." 
 
 The Frenchman faced him. "Don't 
 I know?" He checked himself. "I've 
 not mentioned it to you, but I was born 
 and brought up on those rocks. ' ' 
 
 "You was!" Uncle William con- 
 fronted him. 
 
 The stranger nodded, smiling affa- 
 bly. His long nose was reminiscent. 
 *'I 've played there many a time." 
 
 Sergia's face watched him hopefully. 
 
 Uncle William's had grown a little 
 stem. He bent toward the stranger. 
 "I don't think I jest caught your 
 name," he said slowly. 
 
 "My name is Curie," said the man, 
 
Uncle William 213 
 
 politely— "Benjamin F. Curie," He 
 extracted a card from his pocket and 
 handed it to Uncle William with a deep 
 bow. 
 
 Uncle William pinched it between his 
 thumb and forefinger. He drew down 
 the spectacles from his tufts and ex- 
 amined it carefully. Then he bent and 
 snapped it in his fingers. "I don't 
 know no such— ' ' 
 
 A hand was laid lightly on his arm. 
 "Come, we must look at the other pic- 
 tures. It is almost time to go." 
 
 The crowd had thinned a little and 
 they walked through it easily, three 
 abreast. But Uncle William had moved 
 to the other side of the girl, as far away 
 from the Frenchman as he could get. 
 Now and then he cast a glance of dis- 
 approval at the tall, dipping figure as 
 it bent to the girl or lifted itself to gaze 
 at some picture. There was distrust in 
 
2 14 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William's glance, mingled with 
 vague disturbance. "When they paused 
 again, he moved around in front of the 
 man. "The' 's suthin' kind o' familiar 
 about your face— " he began. 
 
 Sergia's hand was again on his arm. 
 
 He patted it lightly. "Don't you 
 worry a mite, Sergia. I ain't goin' to 
 say anything rash. But it does seem 
 to me as if I 've seen Mr. Curie's face 
 somewheres or other. 'T ain't a face 
 you 're liable to forget. ' ' 
 
 The Frenchman acknowledged the 
 compliment. "It is possible we have 
 met. You have traveled?" 
 
 "A leetle," admitted Uncle William. 
 
 Sergia's face relaxed. She moved 
 away for a minute. 
 
 The Frenchman nodded. "We have 
 doubtless met ; but one forgets— " He 
 lifted his eyeglasses and surveyed Un- 
 cle William's round, good face. "It 
 
Uncle William 215 
 
 does n't seem as if I could have forgot- 
 ten yours, ' ' lie said tliouglitf uUy. * ' And 
 yet I don't place it." 
 
 Sergia had returned. "He has been 
 to St. Petersburg," she suggested. 
 
 The Frenchman's look cleared. 
 "Ah—! It must have been there. It 
 is a privilege to have met you again, 
 sir." He held out his long, slim hand. 
 "I wish you would come and see me. 
 You have my address." He motioned 
 to the card. 
 
 Uncle William looked down at it. 
 "I 'm startin' for home to-morrow," 
 he said dryly. 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! And your home is— ' ' 
 
 Sergia interposed a graceful hand. 
 "Good-night, M. Curie. Tou will come 
 and see me. Mama would be glad T 
 have found you again-" 
 
 He looked down at her mistily. His 
 gaze lingered on her face. "I shall 
 
2i6 Uncle William 
 
 come, my child," lie said gallantly, al- 
 most tenderly. "I shall come many 
 times. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure." 
 She took Uncle William's arm and 
 moved away to the staircase. 
 
 Uncle William's mouth opened and 
 closed once or twice with a little puff. 
 When they reached the foot of the stairs 
 he broke out. "He says he 's a Curie." 
 He flipped the card in his hand. "I 've 
 known Arichat, man and boy, for sixty 
 year. The' wasn't never any Curies 
 there." 
 
 She looked up at him a little per- 
 plexed. "Could n't you have forgot- 
 ten?" 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. "I 
 wish 't I had. You set a good deal o' 
 store by him, I can see. But I ain't 
 likely to forget anybody that 's been 
 brought up there. The' was snthin* 
 
Uncle William 217 
 
 Sincl o' famUiar about Th'th, too." He 
 said it almost irascibly. 
 
 Tke girl sighed softly. "Well, he 
 may have been romanciag. Frenoh- 
 men do— at times— " 
 
 **I call it lying," snorted Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "Yes, yes." She patted his arm. 
 "But can't you understand how you 
 would feel if you saw something beau- 
 tiful—some place that made you feel 
 the way you used to feel when you were 
 a child? You might think for a mo- 
 ment that you had really been there, 
 and say it— without meaning to tell a 
 lie. That 's what I meant." 
 
 Uncle William looked down at her 
 admiringly. "You do put that mighty 
 nice, don't you? You 'most make me 
 believe I could do it, and I guess mebbe 
 I could. But Andy could n't," he 
 added, with conviction. 
 
2i8 Uncle William 
 
 The girl followed her thought. "And 
 what does it matter — if he buys the 
 pictures?" 
 
 "Well, it matters some," said Uncle 
 William, slowly. "I dunno 's I want a 
 liar, not a real liar, ownin' a picter o' 
 my house. But if he jest romances, 
 mebbe I could stand it. It does seem 
 different, somehow." 
 
 When they parted, she looked at him 
 a little wistfully. "I should like to see 
 him again," she said, waiting. 
 
 "Like enough," said Uncle William, 
 gently— "like enough. But I reckon 
 he don't need you just now." He held 
 her hand, looking down at her kindly. 
 
 "Z could see him," she suggested. 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "I could come down to the boat. I 
 would be careful not to let him see 
 
Uncle William 219 
 
 TJnele William considered it "Well, 
 I dunno 's that would do any harm— if 
 yon 're sure you could keep out 0' the 
 way." 
 
 "Yes," eagerly. 
 
 "We 're goin' by the Halifax boat," 
 said Uncle William. "I can make bet- 
 ter 'rangements that way. I know the 
 captain." 
 
 "Yes?" It was a question. 
 
 "Well, I guess 't you can come. 
 Good night, my dear," He bent and 
 kissed her gravely. 
 
 Her eyes followed the tall figure till 
 it loomed away in the dark. 
 
XIX 
 
 I HE boat eased away from, 
 the wharf. The invalid on 
 deck gazed back at the city. 
 A little spot of red lay in 
 the hollow of either cheek. Uncle 
 William hovered about, adjusting pil- 
 lows and rugs. Now and then his eye 
 dropped to the wharf and picked out, 
 casually, a figure that moved in the 
 crowd. "There— that 's a leetle mite 
 easier, ain't it?" 
 
 The yqung man nodded almost fret- 
 fully. "I 'm all right. Uncle William. 
 Don't you fuss any more." He leaned 
 forward, looking toward the wharf. 
 "Who is that?" 
 Uncle William pushed up his speo- 
 
 220 
 
Uncle William 221 
 
 tacles and peered. "I don't seem to 
 see anybody," he said truthfully. He 
 was gazing with some painstaking in 
 the opposite direction. 
 
 "Not there. Look!— She 's gone!" 
 He sank back with a sigh. 
 
 "Somebody you knew, like enough?" 
 The question was indifferent. 
 
 "I thought it was— her." 
 
 "Sho, now! She would n't be likely 
 to be down here this time o' day." 
 
 "No, I suppose not. It was just a 
 fancy." 
 
 "That 's all. You comfortable!" 
 
 "Yes—'- a little impatiently. 
 
 "That 's good. Now we 're off."^ 
 Uncle William beamed on the water 
 that billowed before and behind. He 
 went off to find the captain. 
 
 When he came back, the young man 
 had ceased to look toward the- shore. 
 "I made a mistake," he said regret- 
 fuUy. 
 
22 2 Uncle William 
 
 "That 's nateral," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "I s'pose you 've been thinkin' of 
 her, off and on, and you jest thought 
 you saw her. I would n't think any— " 
 
 "It was n't that," the young man 
 broke in. "1 did see her. I know now. 
 I saw her face for a minute as plain as 
 I see yours. She was looking straight 
 at me and I saw all of a sudden what 
 a fool I was." 
 
 "You 're gettin' better," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "Do you think so? I was afraid—" 
 he hesitated. 
 
 "You thought mebbe you was 
 a-goin' to die?" 
 
 "Well— I have heard that people 
 see clearly— It came over me in a 
 flash so—" 
 
 "Lord, no!" Uncle William chuck- 
 led. "You 're jest gettin' your wits 
 back, that 's all. I should n't wonder 
 
Uncle William 223 
 
 if you 'd be real pert by the time we 
 get there. I cal'ate you '11 be consid- 
 abul help to me— dish-washia' an' so 
 on." 
 
 The towers and chimneys behind 
 them dwindled. The smoke of the 
 city faded to a blur and grew to 
 clear azure. The wind, blew against 
 their faces. After a little the 
 young man got to his feet. "I 'm 
 going to walk awhile." He spoke 
 defiantly. 
 
 "Walk right along," said Uncle 
 William, cheerfully. 
 
 He tottered a few steps, and held 
 out his hand. 
 
 Uncle WUliam chuckled. "I reck- 
 oned you 'd want a lift. ' ' He placed a 
 strong hand under the young man's 
 arm. They paced back and forth the 
 length of the deck. "Feel good!" 
 asked Uncle William. 
 
2 24 Uncle William 
 
 The young man nodded. "I shall go 
 alone to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes, I reckon you will," soothingly. 
 *'And the further north we get, the 
 better you '11 feel. It ,'s cur 'us about 
 the North. The' 's suthin' up there 
 keeps drawin' you like a ne'edle. I 've 
 known a man to be cured jest by turn- 
 in' and sailin' that way when he was 
 sick. Seem 's if he stopped pullin' 
 against things and jest let go. You 
 look to me a little mite tired. I 'd go 
 below for a spell if I was you." 
 
 The young man went below and 
 slept. "When he woke he felt better, as 
 Uncle William had predicted. At 
 Halifax he insisted on sending a tele- 
 gram to Sergia. After that he watched 
 the water with gleaming face, and 
 when they boarded the Jokn L. Conn 
 and the shores of Arichat shaped 
 themselves out of space, he was like a 
 boy. 
 
Uncle William 225 
 
 Uncle William leaned forward, scan- 
 ning the wharf. "There 's Andy!" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Eight there. Don't you see him— 
 dangling his legs over the edge?" 
 
 "Hallo, Andy!" The young man's 
 voice had a joyous note. 
 
 Andy grunted. 
 
 When they landed, he held out a limp 
 hand. "Got any duds?" he asked 
 indifferently. 
 
 "There 's my box and hisn and some 
 traps down below. He 's gone down 
 to look after 'em," said Uncle WiUiam. 
 "Juno come back?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 The young man appeared on deck 
 with his hand-bag. "How are you, 
 Andy?" 
 
 Andy nodded. 
 
 "He says she ain't come back," said 
 Uncle William. 
 
 as 
 
2 26 Uncle William 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Juno. She must 'a' been gone as 
 much as a week, ain't she, Andy?" 
 
 "Two weeks last night," said Andy. 
 
 "Tuh-tuh!" Uncle William's tongue 
 expressed concern. "We '11 hev to go 
 look for her. Ton goin' to row us 
 up?" 
 
 "Guess so," said Andy. 
 
 "I thought ye 'd want to. Set right 
 there, Mr. Woodworth. Don't you 
 mind bein' in the way. Andy 's used 
 to it." 
 
 They rowed up through the clear 
 light. The harbor stretched away, 
 gleaming, to darkness. The clijffs rose 
 on the right, somber and waiting. 
 Uncle William lifted his face. The 
 little house on the cliff caught a gleam 
 and twinkled. The boat grated on the 
 beach. There was a stiff climb up the 
 path, with long pauses for breath. 
 
Uncle William 227 
 
 Uncle William opened the door. He 
 moved back swiftly. A gray avalanche 
 had descended upon him. She clawed 
 at his shoulder and perched there, look- 
 ing down at him. 
 
 A smile overspread Uncle William's 
 face. He put up a hand to the gray fur, 
 stroking it. "Now, don't that beat 
 all?" he said. "She 's been here all 
 along, like enough, Andy." 
 
 "Durned if I know," said Andy. 
 He looked at her aggressively. "I 
 hain't seen hide nor hair of her for two 
 weeks." 
 
 Juno returned the look, purring in- 
 differently. She leaped from Uncle 
 WiUiam's shoulder, leading the way 
 into the house, her back arched and 
 her tail erect; her toes scarcely touched 
 the boards she trod upon. 
 
 She disappeared under the red 
 lounge. In a moment her head reap- 
 
22 8 Uncle William 
 
 peared— with something dangling from 
 the mouth. She laid it proudly at Uncle 
 William's feet. 
 
 He peered at it. "Ketched a mouse, 
 hev ye? I reckoned she would n't 
 starve, Andy ! ' ' He beamed on him. 
 
 "That ain't a mouse," said Andy. 
 
 "Why, so 't ain't.— Juno ! " Uncle 
 William's voice was stern. "You come 
 here ! ' ' 
 
 Juno came— with another. She laid 
 it at his feet and departed for a third. 
 By the time the fifth was deposited be- 
 fore him. Uncle William said feebly: 
 "That 's enough for this time, Juno. 
 Don't you do no more." 
 
 She added one more to the wriggling 
 row, and seated herself calmly beside 
 it, looking up for approval. 
 
 Uncle William glared at her for a 
 minute. Then a sunny smile broke his 
 face. "That 's all right, Juno." He 
 
Uncle William 229 
 
 bent and stroked the impassive head. 
 "I was prepared to mourn for ye, if 
 need be, but not to rejoice— not to this 
 extent. But it 's all right." Juno 
 purred in proud content. 
 
XX 
 
 IT -was fortunate that the ar- 
 tist was better, for Uncle 
 William became lost in the 
 kittens and their welfare. 
 The weakest thing at hand claimed his 
 interest. He carried them in a clam- 
 basket from point to point, seeking the 
 best spots for their comfort and devel- 
 opment. Juno marched at his side, 
 proud and happy. She purred ap- 
 proval of the universe and the ways of 
 man. Wherever Uncle William depos- 
 ited the basket, she took up her abode, 
 serenely pleased ; and when, a few hours 
 later, he shifted it on account of wind 
 or rain or sun, she followed without de- 
 mur. For her the sun rose and set in 
 
 230 
 
Uncle William 231 
 
 Uncle William's roimd face and the 
 depths of the clam-basket. 
 
 The artist watched the comedy with 
 amused disapproval. He suspected 
 Uncle William of trifling away the 
 time. The spring was fairly upon them, 
 and the Andrew Halloran still swung 
 at anchor alone at the foot of the cliff. 
 Whenever the artist broached the sub- 
 ject of a new boat, Uncle William 
 turned it aside with a jest and trotted 
 off to his clam-basket. The artist 
 brooded in silence over his indebtedness 
 and the scant chance of making it good. 
 He got out canvas and brushes and be- 
 gan to paint, urged by a vague sense 
 that it might bring in something, some 
 time. When he saw that Uncle William 
 was pleased, he kept on. The work took 
 his mind off himself, and he grew 
 strong and vigorous. Andy, coming 
 upon him one day on the beach, looked 
 
232 Uncle William 
 
 at his brown face almost in disap- 
 proval. "You 're a-feelin' putty well, 
 ain't you?" lie said grudgingly. 
 
 "I am," responded the artist. He 
 mixed the color slowly on his palette. 
 A new idea had come into his head. He 
 turned it over once and then looked at 
 Andy. The look was not altogether en- 
 couraging. But he brought it out 
 quickly. "You 're a rich man, are n't 
 you, Andy?" 
 
 Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched 
 the leg of his trousers. "I dunno 's 
 I be, " he said slowly. "I 've got money 
 —some. But it takes a pile to live on." 
 
 * ' Yes ? ' ' The artist stood away from 
 his canvas, looking at it. "You and 
 Uncle WUliam are pretty good friends, 
 are n't you?" 
 
 "Good enough," replied Andy. His 
 mouth shut itself securely. 
 
 The artist did not look at it. He has- 
 
Uncle William 233 
 
 tened on. "He misses his boat a good 
 deal." 
 
 "I know that," snapped Andy. His 
 green eye glowered at the bay. "Ef it 
 had n't been for foolishness he 'd hev 
 it now." 
 
 The artist worked on quietly. "I 
 lost his boat for him, Andy. I know 
 that as well as you do. You need n't 
 rub it in." 
 
 "What you goin' to do 'bout it?" 
 demanded Andy. 
 
 "I 'm going to ask you to lend me 
 the money for a new one. ' ' 
 
 "No, sir!" Andy put his hands in 
 his pockets. 
 
 "I '11 give you my note for it," said 
 the artist. 
 
 "I do' want your note," retorted 
 Andy. "I 'd ruther have Willum's, 
 and his ain't wuth the paper it 's writ 
 
2 34 Uncle William 
 
 The artist flushed under his new 
 color. "I don't know just why you 
 say that. I shall pay all I owe— in 
 time. ' ' 
 
 "Well, you may, and then again you 
 may n't," said Andy. His tone was 
 less crusty. "All I know is, you 've 
 cost Willum a heap o' money, fust and 
 last. You 've e't a good deal, and you 
 lost the Jennie, and he had to borrow a 
 hunderd of me to go to New York 
 with." Andy spoke with unction. He 
 was relieving his mind. 
 
 The artist looked up. "I did n't 
 know that." He began to gather up 
 his materials. 
 
 "What you goin' to do?" asked 
 Andy. 
 
 "I 'm going to find Uncle William," 
 said the artist. 
 
 Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off 
 at the water. "I wa'n't findin' no 
 
Uncle William 235 
 
 fault," he said uneasily. "I was just 
 explainin' why I could n't resk any 
 more o' my money on him." 
 
 "That *s all right," said the artist. 
 "I want to see him." 
 
 He found Uncle "William sunning the 
 kittens at the east of the house. He 
 looked up with a nod as the artist ap- 
 peared. "They 're doin' fust-rate," he 
 said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. 
 "They '11 be a credit to their raising. 
 Set down." 
 
 The artist seated himself on a rock 
 near by. The sun fell warm on his 
 back. Across the harbor a little breeze 
 ran rippling. At the foot of the cliff 
 Andy was making ready to lift anchor. 
 The artist watched him a minute. 
 "You 've wasted a good deal of money 
 on me, ' ' he said soberly. 
 
 Uncle William looked at him. He 
 dropped an eye to the Andrew Hallo- 
 
236 Uncle William 
 
 ran. ' ' He been talkin ' to ye ? " he asked 
 cheerfully. 
 ' ' He told me you borrowed of him— ' ' 
 "Now, don't you mind that a mite. 
 Andy don't. He 's proud as Punch to 
 have me owe him suthin'. He reminds 
 me of it every day or two. All I mind 
 about it is your frettin' and takin' on 
 so. If you 'd jest be easy in your 
 mind, we 'd have a reel comf 'table 
 time — with the kittens and all." He 
 replaced one that had sprawled over 
 the edge. "The' 's a lot o' comfort 
 in doin' for dumb things," he went 
 on cheerfully. * ' They can't find fault 
 with the way you fix 'em.' ' He chuckled 
 a little. 
 
 The artist smiled. "Look here, Uncle 
 William, you can't fool me any longer. 
 You 're just pining for a boat. Look 
 at that!" He waved his hand at the 
 water dimpling below. 
 
Uncle William 237 
 
 Uncle William's gaze dwelt on it 
 fondly for a minute. 
 
 "And you sit here dawdling over that 
 basket of kittens!" Scorn and disgust 
 struggled in the artist's voice. 
 
 Uncle "William laughed out. He 
 stood up. "What is 't you want me to 
 do?" he asked. 
 
 The artist eyed him miserably. 
 "That 's the worst of it-I don't 
 know. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I '11 tell ye," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "We '11 row down and get the 
 mail, and after that we '11 plan about 
 the boat. I ain't quite so daft as I 
 look," he said half apologetically. 
 "I 've been turnin' it over in my mind 
 whilst I 've been doin' the kittens, and 
 I 've 'bout decided what to do. But 
 fust, we 'U get the maU." 
 
XXI 
 
 IHERE was a letter for the 
 artist. It contained a check 
 from the Frenchman. He 
 had bought three c^ the pic- 
 tures—the one of Uncle William's 
 house and the two of the old Bodet 
 place. 
 
 "Did you know it?" demanded the 
 artist. He was facing Uncle William 
 in the boat as they rowed home. 
 
 "I did n't jest know it," said Uncle 
 William, with a long, easy pull, "but 
 I reckoned suthin' 'd be along putty 
 soon. If it had n't come to-day, I was 
 goin' to make Andy give us enough to 
 begin on. ' ' 
 
 "He would n't have done it." 
 
 238 
 
Uncle William 239 
 
 "Oh, yes, lie 'd 'a' done it. He 'd 
 'a' squirmed and twisted some, but 
 he 'd 'a' done it. He 'd 'a' had to!" 
 
 The artist laughed out happily. 
 "Well, now you, can do as you like. 
 We '11 have the best boat there is 
 going. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "I knew 
 you 'd want to. I 've been kind o' plan- 
 nin' for it. We '11 go down to-morrow 
 or next day and see about it. ' ' 
 
 The artist looked at him curiously. 
 "I don't believe you care half as much 
 as I do!" 
 
 Uncle William returned the look, 
 smiling broadly. "It '11 seem putty 
 good to feel my own boards under me 
 again," he said cheerfully. 
 
 "But you did n't care when you 
 did n't have them," said the artist. 
 "You just toted those infernal kit- 
 tens—" 
 
240 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William's chuckle was genial. 
 "Kittens ain't everything," he said 
 mildly. "But I 've seen the time when 
 kittens wa'n't to be despised. You jest 
 set that way a little mite, Mr. Wood- 
 worth, and I '11 beach her even. ' ' 
 
 "One thing I 'm glad of," said the 
 artist, as the boat grated along the peb- 
 bles. "You can pay Andy." 
 
 "Andy '11 be glad," responded Uncle 
 William, "but it '11 be quite g, spell be- 
 fore he has a chance to." He waved 
 his arm toward the bay. "He 's off for 
 the day." 
 
 The artist scanned the horizon with 
 disappointed face. "He '11 be back by 
 noon, perhaps?" 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. "Not 
 afore night. I can tell by the way he 's 
 movin '. We '11 come up and hev dinner 
 and then we can plan her out." 
 
 They sat on the rocks all the after- 
 
Uncle William 241 
 
 noon, looking at the dancing waves and 
 planning the new Jennie. Uncle Wil- 
 liam drew models on the back of an old 
 envelope and explained figures. The ar- 
 tist followed him with eager eyes. Now 
 and then his chest expanded and he 
 drew a deep breath of satisfaction. 
 
 "Feel 's good, don't it?" said Uncle 
 William. '■! ust to feel that way when 
 I 'd been in debt a good while and made 
 a big ketch. Seemed 's if the whole 
 world slid off my shoulders." He 
 shook his head. "But it was kind 0' 
 foolishness." 
 
 * ' Would n 't you feel that way now ? ' ' 
 demanded the artist. 
 
 ''I don't believe I would," said Uncle 
 William, slowly. "It 's a kind 0' 
 wicked feelin'— when the sun 's a- 
 shining jest the same, and the water 's 
 movin' up and down,—" he motioned 
 toward the harbor,— "and the boats are 
 
242 Uncle William 
 
 comin' in at nigM, settlin' down like 
 birds, and the lights,' He looked 
 affectionately at tlie water. "It 's 
 all there jest the same whether I 
 owe anybody or not. And the 
 rocks don't budge much — " He laid 
 his big brown hand on the warm sur- 
 face beside him, smoothing it in slow 
 content. 
 
 The artist looked at him, smiling a 
 little wistfully. "It sounds all very 
 well to talk about," he said, "but the 
 world would go to rack and ruin if 
 everybody felt that way. ' ' 
 
 "I ust to think so," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam, placidly. "I ust to lie awake 
 nights worryin' about it. But late years 
 I 've give it up. 'Seems to jog along 
 jest about the same as when I was wor- 
 ryin'— and I take a heap sight more 
 comfort. Seems kind o' ridiculous, 
 don't it, when the Lord 's made a world 
 
Uncle William 243 
 
 as good as this one, nbt to enjoy it 
 some?" / 
 
 "Don't you feel any responsibility 
 toward society?" asked the artist, cu- 
 riously. 
 
 Uncle William shook his head with a 
 slow smile. "I don't believe I do. I 
 ust to. Lord, yes ! I ust to think about 
 folks that was hungry till my stummick 
 clean caved in. I used to eat my dinner 
 like it was sawdust, for fear I 'd get a 
 little comfort out of it, while somebody 
 somewheres was starvin'— little chil- 
 dern, like enough. That was al'ays the 
 hardest part of it— little childern. I ust 
 to think some of foundin' a' sylum up 
 here on the rocks— sailin' round the 
 world and pickin' up a boat-load and 
 then bringin' 'em up here and tumin' 
 'em loose on the rocks, givin' 'em all 
 they could stuff to eat. And then one 
 night, when I was cal'atia' and figgerin' 
 
244 Uncle William 
 
 on it, I saw that I could n't get half of 
 'em into my boat, nor a quarter, nor a 
 tenth— jest a little corner of 'em. And 
 then it come over me, all of a sudden, 
 what a big job I 'd tackled, and I jest 
 turned it over to the Lord, then and 
 there. And all the next day I kep' 
 kind o' thinking about it out here on 
 the rocks — how he 'd took a thousand 
 year — mebbe 't was more; a good long 
 spell, they say— to get the rocks ready 
 for folks to live on— jest the rocks I 
 And like enough he knew what he was 
 plannin' to do, and did n't expect me 
 to finish it all up for him in fo'-five 
 years. Since then I 've been leavin' it 
 to him more— takin' a hand when I 
 could, but payin' more attention to 
 livin'. I sort o' reckon that 's what 
 he made us for — to live. The' 's a 
 good deal o' fun in it if you go at it 
 right. 
 
Uncle William 245 
 
 "That 's a great idea, Uncle Wil- 
 liam," said the artist. 
 
 "It 's qomf'tabul," assented Uncle 
 William. "You get your living as you 
 go along, and a little suthin' over. 
 Seems 's if some folks did n't even get 
 a living they 're so busy doing things." 
 
 He was silent for a while, his blue 
 eyes following the light on the water. 
 "The' was a man I sailed with once,— a 
 cur 'us sort o' chap,— and when he 
 wa'n't sober he could tell you inter- 
 estin' things. He had n't been a sailor 
 al 'ays— took to it 'cause he liked it, he 
 said. And he tol' me a good deal about 
 the goings-on of the earth. Like enough 
 't wa'n't so— some on it— but it was in- 
 terestin'. He told me 't the earth was 
 all red-hot once, and cooled off quicker 
 on the outside— like a hot pertater, I 
 s'pose. You 've heard about it?" He 
 looked inquiringly at the artist. 
 
246 Uncle William 
 
 The artist nodded. ' ' Yes. ' ' 
 "Well, I 've thought about that a 
 good many times when I 've been sail- 
 in'. I could see it all, jest the way he 
 put it, the earth a-whirlin' and twirlin', 
 and the fire and flames a-shootin' up to 
 the sky, and rocks and stones and stuff 
 a-b 'ilin ' and flyin ' — " Uncle William 's 
 eye dwelt lovingly on the picture. " I 'd 
 seem ^0 see it all jest the way he tol' it, 
 and then I 'd put my hand out over the 
 side of the boat and trail it along in the 
 water to cool off a little." Uncle Wil- 
 liam chuckled. ' ' Sometimes it seems 's 
 if you 'd come a million miles all in a 
 minute— rocks all along the shore, 
 good hard rocks 't you could set on, 
 and the hill up to the sky with grass on 
 it, green and soft, and the water all 
 round. It a 'most takes your breath 
 away to come back like that from that 
 red-hot ball he talked about and see it 
 
Uncle William 247 
 
 all lyin' there, so cool and still, and the 
 sun shinin' on it. I got to thinkin' 
 'bout it, days when I was sailin', and 
 wondering if mebbe the Lord wa'n't 
 gettin' folks ready jest the way he did 
 the rocks— rolling 'em over and having 
 'em pound each other and claw and 
 fight and cool off, slow-like, till byme-by 
 they 'd be good sweet earth and grass 
 and little flowers— comf'tabul to live 
 with." 
 
 The artist sat up. "Do you mean to 
 say you would n't stop folks fighting if 
 you could?" 
 
 Uncle "William eyed the proposition. 
 "Well, I dunno 's I 'd say jest that. 
 I 've thought about it a good many 
 times. Men al'ays Tiev fit and I reckon 
 they will—qviiie a spell yet. There 's 
 Russia and Japan now: you could n't 
 'a' stopped them fightin' no more 'n 
 two boys that had got at it. All them 
 
248 Uncle William 
 
 Russians and them little Japs— we 
 could n't 'a' stopped 'em fightin'— the 
 whole of us could n't have stopped 'em 
 —not unless we 'd 'a' took 'em by the 
 scruff ' the neck and thrown 'em down 
 and set on 'em— one apiece. And I 
 dunno 's that 'd be much better 'n fight- 
 in'— settin' on 'em one apiece." 
 
 The artist laughed out. 
 
 Uncle William beamed on him. ' ' You 
 see, this is the way I figger it: Eussia 
 and Japan wa'n't fightin' so much for 
 anything they reelly wanted to git. It 
 was suthin' in 'em that made 'em go for 
 each other, tooth and nail, and pommel 
 so— a kind 0' pizen bubbling and siz- 
 zling inside 'em; we 've all got a little 
 of it." He smiled genially. "It has 
 to work out slow-like. Some does it by 
 fightin' and some does it by prayin'; 
 and I reckon the Lord 's in the fightin', 
 same as in the prayin'." 
 
Uncle William 249 
 
 The artist looked at Mm curiously. 
 "Some people call that the devil, you 
 know." 
 
 Uncle William cleared his throat. 
 He picked up a little stone and balanced 
 it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. 
 Then he looked up with a slow smile. 
 "I ain't so well acquainted with the 
 devil as I ust to be," he said. "I ust 
 to know him reel well ; ust to think about 
 him when I was out sailin'— figger how 
 to get ahead of him. But late years I 'd 
 kind 0' forgot— He 's livin' still, is 
 he?" 
 
 The artist laughed quietly. "They 
 say so— some of them." 
 
 Uncle William's smile grew wider 
 and sweeter. "Well, let him live. 
 Poor old thing! 'T won't hurt none, 
 and he is a kind 0' comfort to lay things 
 on when you 've been, more 'n usual, 
 cussed. That 's the Andrew Halloran 
 
250 Uncle William 
 
 over there to the left. ' ' He pointed to 
 a dusky boat that was coming in slowly. 
 "That 's his last tack, if he makes it, 
 and I reckon he will. Now, if you '11 
 go in and start the chowder, I 'U see if 
 he wants any help about maMn' fast." 
 
xxn 
 
 [NDY eased in to the wharf 
 with cautious eye. He 
 threw the rope to Uncle 
 William and busied himself 
 with the sail. 
 
 Uncle William peered down upon 
 him. "Got quite a nice mess, did n't 
 ye?" 
 "Yep." 
 
 "How 'd they run?" 
 "Cod-mostly." 
 "Ye got some halibut." 
 "A few." Andy admitted it grudg- 
 ingly. His tone implied that the Cre- 
 ator withheld halibut out of pure spite. 
 The ways of the universe were a per- 
 sonal grievance to Andy. 
 
 251 
 
252 Uncle William 
 
 "Quite a nice mess," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. " Goin ' to imload ? ' ' 
 
 "Nope— wait for the tide." 
 
 "Ye '11 jest about make it," said 
 Uncle William. He glanced at the sky. 
 "I '11 come down and help ye clean, 
 like enough, after supper." 
 
 Andy climbed up in silence. His som- 
 ber face appeared above the edge of the 
 wharf. Uncle William looked down on 
 it, smUing. "I 've got good news for 
 ye, Andy." 
 
 "Huh?" Andy paused half way. 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "You '11 be 
 reel tickled about it. I 'm goin' to have 
 a, new boat— right off." 
 
 "Ye be?" Andy's mouth remained 
 open. It took in the sky and the bay 
 and Uncle William's smile. 
 
 "Eight off, I knew ye 'd be glad." 
 
 The mouth came together. "Where 
 you goin' to get it?" 
 
Uncle William 253 
 
 "He 's got some money." Uncle Wil- 
 liam nodded toward the cliff. 
 
 Andy looked. "He 's poor as pov- 
 erty. He 's said so — times enough." 
 
 Uncle William smiled. "He 's had 
 luck— quite a run o' luck. He 's been 
 sellin' picters — three-four on 'em." 
 
 "What 's picters!" said Andrew^ 
 scornfully. He scrambled on to the 
 wharf with a backward glance at the 
 Andrew Halloran. "You won't buy no 
 boat off o' picters, Willum. A boat 
 costs three hunderd dollars— a good 
 one." 
 
 "I was cal'atin' to pay five hun- 
 derd," said Uncle William. 
 
 "You was?" Andy wheeled about. 
 "You won't get it out o' him!" He 
 jerked a thumb at the cliff. 
 
 Uncle William chuckled. "Now, 
 ye 've made a mistake, Andy. He 's 
 got that much and he 's got more." 
 
2 54 Uncle William 
 
 The gentle triumph, in Uncle William's 
 tone diffused itself over the land- 
 scape. 
 
 Andy took it in slowly. "How 
 much!" he asked at last. 
 
 "Six-seven thousand," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "What!" Andy's feet scuffed a lit- 
 tle. " 'T ain't reasonable," he said 
 feebly. 
 
 "No, 't ain't reasonable." Uncle 
 William spoke gently. "I was a good 
 deal s 'prised myself, Andy, when I 
 found how high they come — picters. 
 Ye can 't own a gre 't many of 'em— not 
 at one time." 
 
 ' ' Don 't want to, ' ' said Andy, causti- 
 cally. 
 
 "No, you would n't take much com- 
 fort in 'em," said William. '"T is cu- 
 r'us 't anybody should want a picter o' 
 my old hut up there 'hough to pay — 
 
Uncle William 255 
 
 how mucli d' ye s'pose they did pay 
 for it, Andy?" 
 
 Andy glanced at it contemptuously. 
 It glowed in the light of the late sun, 
 warm and radiant. " 'T ain't wuth a 
 hunderd," he said. 
 
 Uncle William's face fell a little. 
 "Well, I would n't say jest that, 
 Andy." 
 
 "Roof leaks," said Andrew. 
 
 "A leetle," admitted Uncle William, 
 "over 'n the southeast corner. She 's 
 weather-tight all but that." He gazed 
 at the little structure affectionately. 
 The sun flamed at the windows, turn- 
 ing them to gold. The artist's face 
 appeared at one of them, beckoning 
 and smiling. Uncle William turned to 
 Andy. "A man give him. two thousand 
 for it," he said. There was sheer pride 
 in the words. 
 
 ' ' For that ? ' ' Andy looked at him for 
 
256 Uncle William 
 
 a minute. Then he looked at the house 
 and the bay and the flaming sky. His 
 left eyelid lowered itself slowly and he 
 tapped his forehead significantly with 
 one long finger. 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. ' ' He 's 
 as sensible as you be, Andy— or me." 
 
 Andy pondered the statement. A 
 look of craft crept into his eye. 
 "What '11 ye bet he ain't foolin' ye?" 
 he said. 
 
 Uncle William returned the look with 
 slow dignity. "I don't speak that way 
 o' my friends, Andy," he said gently. 
 "I 'da heap rather trust 'em and get 
 fooled, than not to trust 'em and hev 
 'em all right." 
 
 Andy looked guilty. "When 's it 
 comin'?" he said grufily. 
 
 "It 's come a 'ready," replied Uncle 
 William; "this mornin'. We 've been 
 figgerin' on a new boat all day, off 
 
Uncle William 257 
 
 and on. He 's goin' to give me five hun- 
 derd to make up for the Jennie." 
 
 "She wa'n't wuth it!" Andy spoke 
 with conviction. He dropped a jealous 
 eye to the Andrew Halloran rising 
 slowly on the tide. 
 
 "No, she wa'n't wuth more 'n three 
 hunderd, if she was that," admitted 
 Uncle William. "I 'm goin' to take the 
 three hunderd outright and borrow the 
 rest. I 'm goin' to pay you, too, 
 Andy." 
 
 Andy's face, in the light of the set- 
 ting sun, grew almost mellow. He 
 turned it slowly. "When you goin' to 
 pay me, Willum?" 
 
 ' ' To-morrow, ' ' answered William, 
 promptly, ' ' or mebbe next day. I reck- 
 oned we 'd all go down and see about 
 the boat together." 
 
 Andy looked about him helplessly. 
 "Everything seems kind 0' turnin' up- 
 
258 Uncle William 
 
 side down," lie said. He drew a deep 
 breath. "Wtat d' ye s'pose it is, Wil- 
 lum— about 'em— picters— that makes 
 'em cost so like the devil?" 
 
 Uncle William looked thoughtful. "I 
 dunno, ' ' he said slowly. "I 've thought 
 about that, myself. Can't be the paint 
 nor the canvas." 
 
 "Cheap as dirt," said Andy. 
 
 "Must be the way he does 'em." 
 
 "Just a-settin' and a-daubin', and 
 a-settin' and a-daubin','' sneered An- 
 drew. 
 
 "I dunno 's I 'd say that, Andy," 
 said Uncle William, reprovingly. "He 
 sweat and fussed a lot." 
 
 Andy's eye roamed the landscape. 
 " 'T ain't reasonable," he said, jeal- 
 ously. "A thing o 't to be wuth more 'n 
 a picter of it. There 's more to a 
 thing." He struck the solid ground of 
 fact with relief. 
 
Uncle William 259 
 
 Uncle William's eye rested on him 
 mUdly. "Ye can't flgger it that way, 
 Andy. I 've tried it. A shark 's big- 
 ger 'n a halibut, but he ain't wuth much 
 — 'cept for manure. ' ' 
 
 "Chowder!" The call rang down 
 from the little house, clear and full. 
 
 Both men looked up, "He 's a-caUin' 
 ye," said Andrew. There was mingled 
 scorn and respect in the tone. 
 
 "You come on up to supper, Andy. 
 We can talk it over whilst we 're 
 eatin'." 
 
 Andy looked down at his clothes. 
 "I 'maUdirt" 
 
 Uncle William surveyed him impar- 
 tially. "Ye ain't any dirtier 'n ye al- 
 'ays be." 
 
 "I dunno 's I be," admitted Andy. 
 
 "Well, you come right along, and 
 after supper we 'U all turn to and help 
 you clean." 
 
2 6o Uncle William 
 
 The artist looked up as they entered. 
 "How are you, Andy? The fish are 
 running great to-day." 
 
 Andy grinned feebly. "I 've heard 
 about it," he said. He drew up to the 
 table with a subdued air and took his 
 chowder in gulps, glancing now and 
 then at the smiling face and supple 
 hands on the opposite side of the table. 
 It was a look of awe tinged with in- 
 credulity, and a little resentment graz- 
 ing the edges of it. 
 
XXIII 
 
 I HE noon sun shone down 
 upon the harbor. The 
 warmth of early summer 
 was in the air. A little 
 breeze ran through it, ruffling the sur- 
 face of the water. The artist, from his 
 perch on the rock, looked out over it 
 with kindling eye. 
 
 His easel, on the rock before him, had 
 held him all the morning. He had been 
 trying to catch the look of coming sum- 
 mer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, 
 and the scudding breeze. When he 
 looked at the canvas, a scowl held his 
 forehead, but when he glanced back at 
 the water, it vanished in swift delight. 
 It was color to dream on, to gloat over 
 —to wait for. Some day it would grow 
 
 261 
 
262 Uncle William 
 
 of itself on his palette, and then, before 
 it could slip away, he would catch it. 
 It only needed a stroke— he could wait. 
 His eye wandered to the horizon. 
 
 A face appeared over the edge of the 
 cliff and cut off the vision. It was 
 Uncle William, puffing a little and 
 warm. "Hello." He climbed up and 
 seated himself on the rock, stretching 
 his legs slowly to the sun. ' ' I reckoned 
 I 'd find ye here. Been doia' her?" 
 He nodded toward the horizon. 
 
 The artist looked into the distance 
 with puzzled eye. ' ' Her ? ' ' He put the 
 word doubtingly. 
 
 Uncle "William glanced at him 
 sharply. "Don't you see nuthin' over 
 there?" He waved a huge arm at the 
 horizon. 
 
 The artist looked again and shook his 
 head slowly. "I see a color I 'd give 
 my eyes to get." 
 
Uncle William 263 
 
 Uncle William chuckled a little. 
 "Eeckon they ain't wnth much to ye." 
 His hand slid into the pocket of his coat 
 and brought out a small spy-glass. He 
 slipped the parts into place and ad- 
 justed it to his eye. "There!" He 
 handed it to the young man. "See if 
 that '11 help ye any. ' ' 
 
 The young man took it, looking out 
 over the bay. "Yes, I see her now. 
 She 's a schooner." He put down the 
 glass. "Do you mean to say you can 
 see that with the naked eye?" 
 
 ' ' Al 'ays could. ' ' Uncle William held 
 out his hand again for the glass. "I 
 don't make her out a schooner, though." 
 
 "She 's two-masted." 
 
 "Yes." Uncle William's eye was 
 glued to the glass. "But she 's lighter 
 built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, 
 like enough. You can see her walk — 
 same as if she was a lady— a-bowin' 
 
264 Uncle William 
 
 and bobbin'." He laid down the glass, 
 a look of pleasure in his face. ' ' She 's 
 comin ' right in, whoever she is. She '11 
 drop' anchor by noon-time." He 
 glanced at the easel. ' ' You been paint- 
 in'?" 
 
 "Trying to." 
 
 ' ' 'Bout a thousand dollars ' wuth, I 
 s'pose?" 
 
 "Not ten cents' worth." 
 
 "Sho, now! Is that so?" He got 
 up and looked down at the canvas, 
 bending above it like some genial 
 giraffe. He straightened himself, smil- 
 ing. ' ' 'Tis kind ' dobby, ' ' he ad- 
 mitted. "Mebbe you '11 do better to- 
 morrow. ' ' 
 
 "Maybe. Was there a letter for 
 me ? ' ' 
 
 The old man shook his head. ' ' Nary 
 letter.— I reckon 't ain't time yet," he 
 added consolingly. 
 
Uncle William 265 
 
 The young man looked gloomily at 
 the water. "She must be ill." 
 
 "Busy, more likely," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
 "It 's been six weeks." 
 
 "You 're feelin' putty well," said 
 Uncle William. 
 
 "I shall go down to-morrow," said 
 the young man. He had begun to 
 gather up his brushes. The hands that 
 lifted them were firm and strong. A 
 clear color ran beneath the tan of his 
 face. 
 
 Uncle William watched him with a 
 little smile. "I dunno 's I 'd go to- 
 morrow. You could go next week if 
 you don't hear nuthin'." 
 
 "I shall go to-morrow. I 've been a 
 fool to wait so long." 
 
 Uncle William's eye twinkled. 
 "You 've been gettin' well," he said. 
 
 "I 'm well now." 
 
2 66 Uncle William 
 
 "Yes, you 're— Hello, there 's 
 Andy. ' ' He leaned over tlie edge of the 
 cliff. "What d' ye make her?" he 
 called down. 
 
 Andy squinted at the distance. 
 "Coaster," he announced. 
 
 "Come up here and take a look at 
 •her." 
 
 Andy climbed slowly up the cliff, 
 "Got your glass?" He took it and 
 fixed the moving speck. " 'T ain't a 
 coaster," he muttered. "What you 
 folks been doin' all the momin'?" 
 
 "Well, I 've been for the mail and 
 some things, and Mr. Woodworth here 
 he 's been paintin'." 
 
 Andy cast a side glance at the easel. 
 Then he gazed fixedly at the bay. He 
 seated himself on a rock. "It 's time 
 for me to go home," he said. 
 
 No one paid any attention to it — 
 Andy least of all. He sat with one leg 
 
Uncle William 267 
 
 swinging over the other, chewing a bit 
 of grass and staring gloomily out to 
 sea. The look of baffled humility in his 
 face made it almost tragic. The artist 
 fell to sketching it under cover of his 
 hand. Uncle William studied the ap- 
 proaching boat. ' ' She 's never been in 
 these waters afore," he announced. 
 "She 's comin' in keerful." No one 
 replied. Andy stared at fate and the 
 artist worked fast. Uncle William 
 reached out for the glass. He took a 
 long look. He dropped it hastily and 
 glanced at the young man, who was 
 working with serene touch— oblivious 
 to the bay. Uncle William looked 
 through the glass again— a long, slow 
 look. Then he slipped it into his pocket 
 and got up, decision in his face. ' ' Com- 
 in' into dinner, Andy?" 
 
 Andy looked up mildly. "I reckon 
 Harr'et 's waitin' for me." He got 
 
2 68 Uncle William 
 
 slowly to his feet. "You 've got an- 
 other done, I s 'pose ? ' ' He glanced en- 
 viously at the easel. 
 
 The artist laughed out. "Want to 
 see it! " He withdrew his hand. 
 
 Andy shambled across. He looked 
 down at it casually. A sheepish grin 
 crept into his face, and spread. 
 "You 've made me look kind o' queer, 
 hain't you?" He gazed, fascinated, at 
 his tragic face. 
 
 Uncle "William came over and bent to 
 the canvas. He drew out his spectacles 
 and peered at it, almost rubbing the 
 paint with his great nose. "It 's 
 Andy!" he said with shrewd delight. 
 "It 's Andy! And it 's the spittin' im- 
 age of him!" He pushed up the 
 glasses, beaming upon Andrew. 
 
 Andrew returned the look somberly. 
 "It 's a good likeness, you think, do 
 you?" 
 
Uncle William 269 
 
 "Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; could 
 n't be better." Uncle William laid an 
 affectionate hand on his shoulder. "It 
 looks jest as mean as you do — and jest 
 as good, too, Andy. ' ' 
 
 Andy cast a glance at the young man. 
 "How long was ye makin' it?" 
 
 ' ' Half an hour, perhaps ; while we 've 
 been sitting here. ' ' 
 
 Andy sighed heavily. ' ' Wuth more 'n 
 I be, too, I reckon?" 
 
 The artist stared at him. 
 
 ' ' I mean— ' ' Andy was almost apolo- 
 getic. "I know they come high— pic- 
 ters. I don't suppose I could afford to 
 buy it of ye—" 
 
 The artist's face lighted. "Do you 
 want it?" 
 
 ' ' Harr 'et might, ' ' — cautiously, — " if 
 't wa' n't too high. .She 's got an 
 easel for it. She al'ays cal'ated to 
 have me done, and she 'd got as fur as 
 
270 Uncle William 
 
 the easel." His eye returned almost 
 wistfully to the canvas. "Willum says 
 it 's a good likeness." He spoke with 
 a kind of dubious pride. 
 
 "It is good." The young man s eye 
 rested on it affectionately. "It 's a 
 ripping good sketch— and you may have 
 it and welcome. ' ' 
 
 Andy drew back a step. "You 
 mean — ' ' 
 
 "I '11 give it to you, yes. ' ' The artist 
 was holding it out laughingly. "And 
 some day you '11 sit for me again. 
 That '11 be pay enough." 
 
 Andy rubbed his hands carefully on 
 the sides of his trousers. He reached 
 them out for the canvas. "It 's kind 
 o' wet," he said. "I '11 have to hold it 
 keerful." He took it in both hands, 
 beaming upon it with a kind of somber 
 joy. Carrying it at arm's-length, he 
 bore it away over the rocks. The ar- 
 
Uncle William 271 
 
 tist watched the stern, angular figure 
 loom against the sky and dip down over 
 the cliff out of sight. 
 
 "I shall do a sketch of him some day 
 that will make us famous," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "It 's time for dinner," responded 
 Uncle William. 
 
XXIV 
 
 iNCLE WILLIAM set the ta- 
 ble, with one eye on the 
 harbor. As he pottered 
 about with the bread and 
 cheese and salmon, a smile widened his 
 round face. 
 
 The artist looked up from the brushes 
 he was cleaning at the door. "You 
 look as happy as if you 'd had a fortune 
 left you, ' ' he said. 
 
 "Well, I 'm considabul contented. I 
 
 gen 'ally am, ain 't I ? " he added quickly. 
 
 "So-so," admitted the young man. 
 
 "You 're shiftless, that 's what 's the 
 
 matter with you." 
 
 Uncle William gave his long, low 
 chuckle. ' ' I guess I be, " he said softly, 
 
 272 
 
Uncle William 273 
 
 "I guess I be. But I do take a sight o' 
 comfort. ' ' 
 
 The young man finished the brushes 
 and brought them in, standing them up 
 in a quart cup. "Dinner ready?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I reckon it is." Uncle William 
 scowled at the lavish table. ' ' 'Pears to 
 me there 's suthin' I 've forgot. Oh, 
 pickles!" He said it triumphantly. 
 "If you would n't mind takin' that 
 plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin' down 
 cellar?" 
 
 "All right." The young man took 
 the plate and disappeared down the lad- 
 der that served as a stairway to the tiny 
 hole beneath. 
 
 Uncle William looked cautiously at 
 the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the 
 window. He drew the glass from his 
 pocket and pointed it at the harbor. 
 The boat had come to anchor just off 
 
 18 
 
2 74 Uncle William 
 
 the island. Uncle William fixed her 
 with his glass. "Uh-huh, jest as I 
 thought," he said softly. 
 
 A step sounded on the ladder and he 
 shut the glass, thrusting in into his 
 pocket and turning a bland, innocent 
 face upon the room. "Does beat all 
 how good pickles be with fish. Set 'em 
 right there, Mr. Woodworth. Now 
 we 're ready." 
 
 Uncle William's chair faced the win- 
 dow, and as he ate his eye dropped, now 
 and then, to the bay below. Once it 
 lighted with a swift gleam and he 
 craned his neck a little. 
 
 "What is it?" asked the artist, half 
 turning 
 
 "Nuthin'," said Uncle William, has- 
 tily, "nuthm'. 'T ain't wuth turnin' 
 your head for. I 'm al'ays seein' 
 things. Get up in the night, like 
 enough, and wander round the island, 
 
Uncle William 275 
 
 jest to see 'em. Go all over the island 
 some nights. You see a good deal that 
 way— fust and last: little critturs run- 
 Ein' round, softlike, and the moon and 
 stars—" Uncle William was talking 
 against time. His eye had lost interest 
 in the bay. It seemed to be fixed on the 
 moon and stars. One ear was turned 
 expectantly toward the door. 
 
 The artist watched him with an 
 amused smile. He never interrupted 
 one of Uncle William's monologues. 
 
 "I 've spent a good deal of my life," 
 went on Uncle William, "looking round 
 at things." 
 
 The gravel crunched outside. 
 
 The artist started. 
 
 Uncle William turned a little. 
 * ' Andy, like enough, ' ' he said. He rose 
 and went leisurely toward the door. 
 
 The figure of a tall man stood in it, 
 surveying the room. 
 
276 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William's smile broke into ra- 
 diance. It crinkled his eyes and nose 
 and mouth. "I said 't was you," he 
 exclaimed. "I knew 't was you." He 
 held out a big hand, and drew the man 
 into the room, peering behind him. A 
 little look of disappointment came over 
 his face. "You all alone?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "I am at present," said the man, 
 smiling. I left a friend on the beach 
 below. I was n't sure how I should 
 find you." His courteous glance took 
 in the young man. 
 
 Uncle William turned quickly. " It 's 
 Mr. Curie," he said, "the one that 
 bought your picters. And he 's left 
 somebody— a friend— down below. Meb- 
 be you would n't mind stepping down 
 and fetchin' 'em up." 
 
 "Of course." The young man rose, 
 holding out a hand. " I 'm glad to meet 
 
Uncle William 277 
 
 you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. 
 I '11 bring him right up." His step 
 lang quick on the rock outside. 
 
 The two old men looked at each other. 
 
 Uncle William's face wore its round- 
 est smile. "I would n't be s 'prised if 
 he stayed quite a spell. ' ' He brought a 
 chair and planted it in front of the 
 stranger. "Set down." 
 
 The man sat down, looking around 
 the room. "It is good to be here," he 
 said. 
 
 Uncle William, with a hand on either 
 knee, surveyed him over his spectacles. 
 ' ' I saw 't was you 'fore you landed. ' ' 
 
 The man's face fell a little. "We 
 wanted to surprise you—" 
 
 "You 've s 'prised Mm all right. He 
 hain't no idea what he 's runnin' to." 
 He looked toward the door. "I reckon 
 he '11 stay an hour. ' ' 
 
 The man crossed one thin leg over 
 
278 Uncle William 
 
 another. "That gives me more time," 
 he said contentedly. 
 
 Uncle William gazed politely. "Was 
 you wantin' time?" he asked. 
 
 The man smiled. "I wanted to see 
 you." 
 
 ' ' You wanted to see otc.^ " Uncle Wil- 
 liam 's face held pleasure, but not very 
 much curiosity. 
 
 The man nodded. "I came on pur- 
 pose." 
 
 "Tou did? I thought you come to 
 bring her?" His thumb indicated the 
 beach. 
 
 "I wanted to see you, and she wanted 
 to come, so here we are. ' ' 
 
 "Here you be," assented Uncle Wil- 
 liam. "And I 'm glad to see ye. He 
 was gettin' middlin' hard to hold." 
 
 The other man studied his face. 
 "How much will you take for your 
 place?" he asked. 
 
Uncle William 279 
 
 Uncle William looked up. He shook 
 his head slowly. "I won't take nuth- 
 
 The man smiled. "I '11 give you five 
 thousand for it. " * 
 
 ' ' You will ? ' ' Uncle William 's glance 
 was mild. A smile crept into it. "I 
 wish 't Andy could hear you say that," 
 he said; "but I can't sell." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Where 'd I live?" 
 
 The stranger appeared to ponder a 
 minute. "You could keep enough ta 
 live on," he said at last. "I 'd rather 
 have you, in fact." 
 
 "I '11 give you enough to live on,"' 
 said Uncle William. ' ' I like your looks.. 
 I 'd like to have you round." 
 
 "That won't do for me," said the 
 man. 
 
 "'T won't do for me, either," said 
 Uncle William. 
 
2 8o Uncle William 
 
 They confronted eacli other. The 
 stranger's eyes dropped first. "I '11 
 give yon ten thousand," he said quietly. 
 
 "You will?" Uncle William moist- 
 ened* his lips with his tongue. "I '11 
 hev to go tell Andy that," he said. 
 
 "You '11 take it?" 
 
 "Lord, no, I could n't take it! Nor 
 twenty thousand; so don't you go of- 
 ferin' it to me. I should like to tell 
 Andy you was offerin' it, though." 
 
 The man laughed out. "1 was 
 thinking of it, ' ' he said. 
 
 Uncle William leaned forward, look- 
 ing at him. "What are you so set on 
 buyin' my place for? It 's a Grod-for- 
 saken spot— most folks would call it. 
 Andy does." 
 
 "T like it," said the man. 
 
 "So do I," said Uncle William. 
 
 The Frenchman waited a nainute. 
 Then he turned a little, looking into 
 
Uncle William 281 
 
 Uncle William's face. "Did you ever 
 see me before?" he asked slowly. 
 
 Uncle William returned the look in 
 full measure. "You ain't forgot I saw 
 you in New York— 'long in the spring ? ' ' 
 
 "I don't mean that. I mean before 
 —years ago." The man's voice was 
 mellow. 
 
 Uncle WUliam studied the thin face 
 and looked over the thin legs. "No, I 
 hain't ever seen ye," he said. "And 
 yet there 's suthin' about ye,"— the 
 man uncrossed his legs,— "suthin' that 
 keeps kind 0' puUin' on me." Uncle 
 William rubbed the back of his head 
 thoughtfully. ' * You ever seen me ? " he 
 demanded. 
 
 The man's eyes laughed. "Hun- 
 dreds of times." 
 
 "You hev?" Uncle William sat up. 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Eight here." 
 
282 Uncle William 
 
 "Inthishoiise?" 
 
 "Well, around here," said the man, 
 ^'on these rocks and near by. I lived 
 "here once. I dote on these rocks— every- 
 one." He waved a hand at the land- 
 scape. 
 
 Uncle William fixed him with stern 
 «ye. "You hain't ever lived here," he 
 said slowly. "You don't mean to lie." 
 His gaze grew kindlier. "You 're jest 
 romancin'." He brought it out with 
 Tinction. 
 
 The Frenchman stared. Then he 
 laughed out. "Well done! I can't 
 fight you for that." He leaned for- 
 ward. "Who lived this side of Gun- 
 nion's when you were a boy?" he asked. 
 
 Uncle William paused. He looked 
 again at the face with its lifted eye- 
 brows and pointed beard. He shook 
 his head. A light grew in his face 
 slowly— he started forward. "Not Bo- 
 
Uncle William 283 
 
 det?" lie said eagerly. "Not little 
 Benjy Bodet?" He stared again. 
 
 The man laughed musically. 
 ' ' Right. ' ' He stood up, holding out his 
 hand. "I thought you would know 
 me." 
 
 Uncle William took it slowly. He 
 studied the thin, keen face. "Benjy 
 Bodet," he said. "I 'd know you— 
 much as you 've changed— I 'd know 
 you! Set right down and tell me all 
 about it. ' ' 
 
 "All?" said the man. He laughed 
 again, looking contentedly about the 
 room. "It will take some time." 
 
 "You' '11 have to stay quite a while," 
 said Uncle William. 
 
 The man nodded. ' ' I mean to. I Ve 
 wanted to come back ever since the day 
 we sailed for France." 
 
 "You was twelve year old that sum- 
 mer," said Uncle William. "Your 
 
284 Uncle William 
 
 folks come into property, did n't they, 
 over there ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes— on my mother's side. We 
 took her name. I was sick for months 
 after we got there— homesick, cooped 
 up in rooms. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You poor little chap ! ' ' Uncle Wil- 
 liam surveyed him. Affection was in 
 his eyes, and memory. ' ' You was al 'ays 
 a kind 0' peaked little thing," he said 
 reflectively. "You hain't changed 
 much— when you come to look. Take 
 off your whiskers and slick up your hair 
 and fetch down your eyebrows a little 
 —jest about the same." 
 
 The man laughed out. He swung his 
 eyeglasses boyishly from their chain. 
 "Well, you 're not." 
 
 " Me ? " Uncle William looked down 
 at his bulk. "More of me— bigger a 
 little, sort o', mebbe." 
 
 The man nodded. ' ' But just the same 
 underneath. ' ' 
 
Uncle William 285 
 
 "Jest the same," said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 The man drew a deep breath. "I 've 
 traveled all over the world. There 's 
 no place like this anywhere." 
 
 "Nowheres," said Uncle "William, 
 fervently. 
 
 "I shall spend my days here." 
 
 "Eight here," assented Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 The man looked at him keenly. 
 "Will you sell?" 
 
 Uncle William shook his head. "I '11 
 divide." 
 
 The man held out his hand. "It 's 
 a bargain. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William took it and held it 
 fast. His eyes twinkled. "I must go 
 and tell Andy," he said. "He '11 be 
 reel pleased." 
 
 "Andy?" The man's face lighted. 
 "You don't mean Andy Halloran? Is 
 he here yet?" 
 
5 86 Uncle William 
 
 "Eight on deck; jest slid down the 
 Tock here this minute, ' ' said Uncle Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 The man's eyes twinkled. "Bemem- 
 Iber the day he took my lobster-pot?" 
 
 "Borrowed it," said Uncle William, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Borrowed it," assented the man. 
 He chuckled a little. ' ' He got his pay. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William nodded. "He al'ays 
 does. Andy 's borrowin' lobster-pots 
 now— same Andy — gets his pay every 
 time. He 's great on gettin' his pay, 
 Andy is. ' ' 
 
 "He ought to have made a mean 
 man," said the other, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Well, he hain't, not so to speak," 
 said Uncle William, slowly. "There 's 
 mean spots— rocks; you have to steer 
 some, but it 's sandy bottom if you know 
 liow to make it. I 've anchored on him 
 a good many year now and I never 
 
Untie William 287 
 
 knew him to slip anchor. It may drift 
 a little now and then. Any bottom will 
 drift." 
 
 The man laughed out. "So it will." 
 He took up his hat. "I must go and 
 look up a place to stay, ' ' he said. 
 
 Uncle William looked at him sternly, 
 "Not a step. You don't stir a step, 
 Benjy Bodet." He pointed to the red 
 lounge. 
 
 The Frenchman paused, irresolute. 
 ^'I 'm going to stay some time, you 
 know." He glanced about the little 
 room. ' ' I shall be in the way. ' ' 
 
 "You set right down," said Uncle 
 William. 
 
 The man looked at him with raised 
 brows. "You want me?" 
 
 "Want you? Why should n't I 
 want you!" roared Uncle William. 
 "I 've been waitin' for you sixty year 
 and odd. Set down ! ' ' 
 
2 88 Uncle William 
 
 The Frenckman sat down on the red 
 lounge and crossed his legs. 
 
 A ball of gray fur descended upon 
 them and fluffed itself, purring. 
 
 He peered at it uncertainly. He 
 swung the glasses to place upon his 
 nose, surveying it. 
 
 "Now, don't that show?" demanded 
 Uncle William. "She don't take to 
 strangers— never. Look at her. ' ' She 
 was kneading her paws in the thin 
 knees, delicately, with treading soft- 
 ness. 
 
 The Frenchman's eyes lighted. 
 "She 's your cat?" 
 
 "She is," said Uncle William, "and 
 she knows a lot. If she says you 're 
 goin' to stay, you 're goin' to. You 
 won't leave here, not till you 've built 
 over there on the old cellar place. ' ' He 
 waved his hand toward the horizon. 
 "I '11 help ye build," he exclaimed. 
 
Uncle William 289 
 
 "They ain't nuthin' I like better 'n 
 potterin' around and tellin' folks what 
 to do. I can't fish till the Jennie 's 
 done, and I '11 turn to and help. The' 
 's a girl I can get to do the work. 
 She 's a good cook, and she '11 come 
 down and do for us— be glad to." He 
 rubbed his hands, beaming upon his 
 guest. 
 
 The Frenchman stroked the gray fur 
 with slow touch. "I might take the 
 young man's place," he said thought- 
 fully. 
 
 Uncle William paused. "Lord! I 'd 
 clean forgot— I feel about twelve year 
 old," he added apologetically. "But 
 don 't you worry. This house '11 stretch. 
 We three '11 get along all right in it." 
 
 "And Sergia?" said the man, with a 
 smile. 
 
 Uncle William rubbed his head. 
 "Um— I 'd forgot her, too." 
 
290 Uncle William 
 
 The man laughed out. "You don't 
 need to worry. I 'm going to lend them 
 my yacht for a trip." 
 
 "Both on 'em?" asked Uncle Wil- 
 liam. His puzzled face gazed at the 
 man. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Uncle William stared. Then the light 
 dawned. "Eight off?" he demanded. 
 
 "Eight off," said the man. "And 
 when they come back, the house will be 
 ready for them. ' ' 
 
 Uncle William glowed. "Theygoin' 
 to live with you?" 
 
 "I hope so.'* 
 
 "Well, well!" He rubbed his great 
 knees thoughtfully with either hand. 
 "I would n't ever 'a' thought o' that. 
 And the Lord himself could n't 'a' 
 planned anything better 'n that." 
 
 ' ' Thank you, ' ' said the man, smiling. 
 
 "Jest the right thing," went on 
 
Uncle William 291 
 
 Uncle William. "And byme-by there '11 
 be little toddlers— gettin' over the 
 rocks between here and there." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And settin' by the fire, warmin' 
 their toes and eatin' tarts jest the way 
 we used to." 
 
 "Just the same," said the man. 
 
 Uncle William mused thoughtfully. 
 The light of flitting memories was in his 
 face. 
 
 The man on the lounge watched him 
 through the high-perched glasses. Pres- 
 ently he took off the glasses and rubbed 
 them on his handkerchief. Then he blew 
 his nose. 
 
 Uncle William looked up. The smile 
 on his face was beautiful and tender and 
 full of light. "Where be they?" he 
 said. 
 
XXV 
 
 jHEY were standing by a 
 great rock at the foot of the 
 cliff. The afternoon had 
 slipped away and the har- 
 bor was full of changing light, but the 
 artist's back was turned to it. He was 
 looking into two little round mirrors of 
 light. Perhaps he saw the harbor re- 
 flected there. He saw everything else 
 —the whole round world, swinging in 
 space, and life and death. He bent 
 closer to them. '^-Why did n't you 
 write!" reproachfully. 
 ' 'Uncle William would n 't let me. ' ' 
 "Uncle WnUam!" 
 She nodded. "He told me not to 
 write. He said you would get well 
 
 292 
 
Uncle William 293 
 
 faster if you had sometMng to bother 
 you." The demure face was full of 
 glinting lights. "He seemed to think 
 that is what we are made for— mostly. 
 He 's an old dear!" she added. 
 
 " He is ! " He had gained possession 
 of the quick-moving hand. "I shall 
 keep you now that I have you— " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "—for that very purpose!" 
 
 She smiled quietly. "I '11 try to live 
 
 up to it. You tock the prize, you 
 
 know." 
 
 He caged the other hand. "Bother 
 
 the prize! There 's only one thing I 
 
 want. ' ' 
 
 Her lip trembled a little. 
 
 He watched it j ealously . He bent and 
 touched the trembling line. The world 
 was blotted out— sun and bay and 
 wheeling sky. A new world was bom 
 —of two souls and swift desire. The 
 
2 94 Uncle William 
 
 heart of the universe opened to them. 
 When they drew apart, her eyes were 
 lighted with tears. He wiped them 
 away slowly, holding the prisoned 
 hands. "We will not wait," he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "No," half breathed. 
 
 "In a week?" insistently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "To-morrow?" imperiously. 
 
 The laughter had come back to her 
 eyes. ' ' To-day ! ' ' She freed her hands. 
 "Come." 
 
 He was searching her face. "You 
 mean it?" 
 
 "Why not? They will be glad to get 
 rid of us. ' ' She lifted a laughing ges- 
 ture to the cliff. 
 
 "They?" 
 
 "William and Benjamin." She said 
 the names with slow pleasure, . smiling 
 at his puzzled face. "It all came out 
 
Uncle William 295 
 
 when I told him that I knew you and 
 that Uncle William lived here. He saw 
 in a flash — everything! We started 
 next day. ' ' 
 
 He had put an arm about her, guard- 
 ingly. ' ' We '11 go hunt up a priest, ' ' he 
 said. 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 * ' At once ! ' ' decisively. ' ' Uncle Wil- 
 liam might think I needed more disci- 
 pline." 
 
 "You 're looking very well." She 
 was gazing at him with fond eyes. 
 
 "I am well." He stretched out his 
 arms. "I could conquer the world." 
 
 "We '11 sail round it." She nodded 
 to the boat that was anchored off the 
 island. ' ' She is ours —for as long as we 
 want heri ' ' 
 
 He stared at the boat and raised a 
 glance to the cliff. "And what will he 
 do?" 
 
2g6 Uncle William 
 
 "M. Curie? He builds for himself a 
 house, for himself— and for us." She 
 half chanted the words in sheer delight. 
 
 "A house— here— for himself— and 
 for us!" His glance took in the bare, 
 stern grandeur. "It will be very near 
 heaven." 
 
 "Very near. Come, let us go." 
 They climbed the steep path, with many 
 pauses to look back on the gleaming 
 bay and the boat riding at anchor— the 
 boat that was to carry them away to the 
 ends of the earth. 
 
 "We will go to St. Petersburg," said 
 Sergia, watching the shining light. 
 
 "And Italy." 
 
 "Italy— and Spain." 
 
 "And build castles there." 
 
 "Castles! And then we will come 
 home at last—" 
 
 "Home!" He said the word under 
 his breath. They had come close to the 
 
Uncle William 297 
 
 little house. Througli the open door 
 they saw the red room,— half in shadow, 
 half in light,— and in the red room the 
 two old men looking at each other. 
 
 Uncle William saw them first and got 
 to his feet, his big face filled with wel- 
 come. "Come in, my dear." He took 
 the girl's face between his hands, look- 
 ing down into it with gentle delight. 
 "We 're glad you 've come," he said 
 slowly. "It was jest about time." He 
 studied the face. ' ' We want you to feel 
 to home, ' ' he went on. ' ' 'Most every- 
 body does feel to home, that comes 
 here." He bent and kissed the face 
 with rough tenderness. 
 
 Juno, from her perch, jumped down 
 and rubbed a sidewise welcome along 
 the gray skirt. 
 
 The girl stooped to stroke her. When 
 she looked up, her eyes were filled with 
 tears. She brushed them hastily aside. 
 
298 Uncle William 
 
 Uncle William, from his height, 
 looked down on them benignly. "You 
 need n't mind those, my dear. Good 
 salt water never hurt anybody yet— on 
 sea or land. You do it all you want to. ' ' 
 
 The girl laughed out. And the music 
 of her laugh filled the room. The twi- 
 light was lighted with it. Down below 
 the tide came in slowly, lapping the 
 stones. Across the harbor a single star 
 shone out. 
 
 Uncle William glanced across to it. 
 "Time to light up," he said. He took 
 down the lantern from its place and 
 lighted it with clumsy, careful fingers, 
 setting it in the window. Then he sur- 
 veyed the little room and his guests, a 
 look of affection in his big face. ' ' Must 
 be 'most time for supper," he said. 
 
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 Adventures of Captain Kettle. By Cutcliffe Hyne. 
 
 Adventures of Gerard. Sy A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Arms and the Woman. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Artemus Ward's Works (extra illustrated). 
 
 At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Awakening of Helena Richie. By Margaret Deland. 
 
 .Battle Ground, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 Belle of Bowling Green, The. By Amelia E. Barr. 
 
 Ben Blair. By Will Lillibridge. 
 
 Best Man, The. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Bfeth Norvell. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 B.ob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Ollivant. 
 
 Brass Bowl, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Brethren, The. By H. Rider Haggard. 
 
 Broken Lance, The. By Herbert Quick. 
 
 By Wit of Women. By Arthur W. Marchmont 
 
 Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Kitchens. 
 
 Cap'n Eri. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Car of Destiny, The. By C. N. and A. N. Williamson. 
 
 Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine. By Rrai^ 
 
 R. Stockton. 
 Cecilia's Lovers. By Amelia E. Barr. 
 
Popular Copyright Books 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at the price you paid for this volume 
 
 Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. 
 
 Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Squire Phin. By Holman F. Day. 
 
 Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett. 
 
 Subjection of Isabel Carnaby. By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. 
 
 Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 
 
 Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright 
 
 Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 
 
 Trail of the Sword, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington. 
 
 Up From Slavery. By Booker T. Washington. 
 
 Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Viper of Milan, The (original edition). By Marjorie Bowetu 
 
 Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 Wheel of Life, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. 
 
 Woman in Grey, A. By Mrs. C. N. Williamson. 
 
 Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 
 
 Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 The Weavers. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 The Little Brown Jug at Kildare. By Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 The Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 My Lady of Cleve. By Percy J. Hartley. 
 
 Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clark. 
 
 Get Rich Quick Wallingford, By George Randolph Chester, 
 
 The Orphan. By Clarence Mulford. 
 
 A Gentleman of France. By Stanley J. Weyman. 
 
^tJRT^S SKRIES &f STANDARD FICTIOl^To 
 
 THE SPIRIT OP THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers In th« 
 Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. Z2ino. with four illustratioas by J. Watsom 
 Davis. Price, fx.oo. 
 
 A book rather out of the ordinary Is this "Spirit of the Border." The 
 main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian mis- 
 sionaries in the Ohio "Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the 
 frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wllderneaa for the plant= 
 Ing of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course,* is 
 Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most 
 admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with thfe 
 savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security. 
 
 Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "ViHag€)| 
 of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. Th«j 
 efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have beeia 
 before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of th^ 
 several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest ' 
 the student. 
 
 By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid wordd 
 pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beau* 
 ilea of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests. 
 
 It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, 
 perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved 
 every .privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of emo 
 plre might be the more certain and rapid. A iov6 story, simple and tenderr 
 runs through^ the book. 
 
 CAP-TAIN BRAND, OF '-HE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By IvieuV 
 Henry A. Wise, 17. S. N. (Harvy Gringo). Cloth, i2mo. with four iilustra 
 tions by J. Watson Davis. Price, $i.oo. 
 
 The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns 
 who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through 
 the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those 
 "who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes 
 denicted 
 
 The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which 
 will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand,' 
 who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence im 
 the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand has 
 never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usuai' 
 embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal. 
 
 NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By 
 Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, ismo. with tour illustrations by J. Watsou 
 Davis, Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life IE 
 Kentuclty was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of 
 print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation ot 
 Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, nar- 
 rated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming 
 love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of 
 "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers tos 
 this enchanting story tc<xa. Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen. 
 
 GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harnt. 
 son Ainsworth. Cloth, i2mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshanfe 
 Price, Ji.oo. 
 
 The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up ParHamenfe 
 the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, 
 was wefk-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme p« 
 rxtortinll^ney from the people by Imposing taxes on the CatlMlics. ' Iffl 
 the°r natural resentment to this extortion, a handfu of bold spirits con- 
 ii,T^(.d to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested. 
 S^UieKtag put to torture. Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners wltfc 
 JWal viBOT* A very Intense iex« .stw5».fflMl»^»»W<»Sl» the entire romance- 
 
gURT'S SmniKS O/ STANPARP FTCTlOyo 
 
 TICONDEROGA : A Story of Early Frontier T^ife in the Mohawk Valley^ 
 By G. P. R. James. Cloth, X2mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watsoo 
 Davis. Price, ;x. 00. < 
 
 The setting of the Btory Is decidedly more picturesque than any ever 
 
 evolved by Cooper: The frontitr of New Yorfe State, where dwelt an English 
 gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss of bis wife, 
 with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the exigencies of war, comes 
 an English officer, who is readily recognised as that Lord Howe who met bis 
 4eath at Tlconderoga. As a most natural sequence, even amid the hostile 
 demonstrations of both French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl 
 find time to make most deltcionsly sweet love, and the son of the recluse hss 
 already lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maidea 
 whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized 
 Ufe. 
 
 The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice hia 
 own life in order to save the son of the Bnglishman, is not among the least 
 of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even 
 to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of the different tribes of 
 Indians known as the "Five Nations,'* with which the story is \lnterspersed, 
 shows that the author gave no small amount of study to the work in question, 
 and nowhere else Is it shown more plainly than by ttie skilful manner In 
 which he has Interwoven with his plot the "blood" law, which demands a 
 life for a life, whether It be that of the murderer or one of his race. 
 
 A more charming storr of mingled love and adventure has never been 
 written than "Tlconderoga." 
 
 ROB OP THE BOWL : A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John 
 p. Kennedy. Cloth, X2mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis, 
 Price, $1.00. 
 
 It was while be was a member of Congress from Maryland that the 
 noted statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native 
 State, and while some critics are inclined to consider "Horse Shoe Robinson" 
 as the best of his works, it Is certain that "Rob of the BowV* etands at the 
 head of the list as a literary production and an authentic exposition of the 
 manners and customs during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of 
 the action takes place in St. Mary's — the original capital of the State. 
 
 As a series of pictures, of early colonial life In Maryland, "Rob of the 
 Bowl" has no equal, and the boot, having 'bpen written by one who had 
 »ceptlonal facilities for gathering material concerning the individual mem- 
 bers of the settlements In and about St. Mary's, is a moat valuable addition 
 to the history of the State. 
 
 Tbe story Is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a 
 plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page. 
 
 BY BBRWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine. 
 
 It is a tender and beautiful romance of the Idyllic. A charming picture 
 of life in a Welsh seaside village, it Is som«thing of a prose-poem, tracL 
 tender and graceful. 
 
 IN DEFIANCE OP THE KING. A romance of the American Revolution. 
 By Chauncey C, Hotchkiss, Cloth, xsmo. with four illustrations by J. Watsoa 
 Davis. Price, |i.oo. 
 
 The story opens In the month of April, 1775, with the provincial troops 
 harrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Botchklss has etched 
 In burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love that thrills from 
 beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats Qulcklr. 
 and we feel ourselves taking a part In the exciting scenes described Yoa 
 lay the book aside with tbe feeling thiit yrtu have seen a gloriouslv truo 
 
 Slcture of the Revolution. His whole story 1*. «o absorbing that you will ait 
 P tal into the nleht to flolBb Itr As a lov© /.umaace U le cbarmlng. 
 
BURT'S SERIES o/ STAN DARD FICTION . 
 
 DARNLEY A Romance of the times of Henry VIH. and Cardinal Wolsej 
 By G. P. R. Jamefc Caoth, lamo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davifc 
 Price, $i.oa 
 
 As a historical romance "Damley" is a book that can be taken UV 
 Bleasurably again and again, for there Is about It that subtle charm which 
 those who are strangers to the works of G. P. B. James have claimed was 
 only to be Imparted by Dumas. 
 
 If there wa? nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, 
 *he account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of 
 erold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every 
 reader. 
 
 There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has 
 taken care to Imagine love passages only between those whom history haa 
 credited with having entertained the teuaer passion one for another, and 
 be succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love. 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VHt 
 Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth. 
 s2mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price $i.oo. 
 
 "Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anna 
 Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too 
 good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, 
 none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his mar- 
 riage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as it 
 was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, 
 and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. 
 This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers. 
 
 HORSESHOK ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in Soutli Caro- 
 Sna in 1780. By John P. Kennedy Cloth, latno. trith four illustrations by J, 
 Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. ' 
 
 Among the old favorites in the 2eld of 'What Is known as historical fic- 
 tion, tbere are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than 
 Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it Is t^e only story which depicts 
 with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Caro- 
 lina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British 
 ander such leaders as Comwallis and Tarleton. 
 
 The reader is charmed with toe story of love which forms the thread 
 of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those 
 times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never over- 
 drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither 
 time nor labor in his efEorts to present in this cbarming love story all that 
 price in blood and tears which the Carolinians faid as their share in the 
 winning of the republic. 
 
 Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" Is a work which should be 
 found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining 
 story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the 
 colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well 
 Illustrated, is something vfhich will give pleasure to thousands who have 
 long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who 
 have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might 
 read it for the first time. 
 
 THE PEARL OP ORB'S ISLAND. A Story of the Coast of Maine. By 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, lamo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book 
 BUed with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each 
 time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all 
 around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and straightway 
 comes "the heavy, hollow nman of the surf on the beach, like the wild 
 angry howl of some savage animal." 
 
 Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, whicU 
 ^»TOe into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel s wings, 
 witnout having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blos- 
 somed'' Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the char- 
 ^r'er of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid th« 
 »ngry billows, piHowed on his dtead mother's breast 
 
 ■There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that 
 ;!!«lloli Mrs. etowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's bland," 
 
mmwLT^s mmwttms &f sTAit harp wt&taO'SJo 
 
 RICHELIEU. A tale of Prance in the reign of King I^ouls XTTT. By G. F 
 Sl. James. Cloth, i2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, fi oc 
 
 In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu,** and waf 
 fecognized at once as one of the masters of the craft. 
 
 In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great car- 
 dinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was 
 yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which 
 overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity 
 One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar's conspir- 
 acy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery 
 resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better Insight into the state* 
 craft of that day than can be bad even by an exhaustive study of history. 
 It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling 
 and abBorbing interest has never been excelled. 
 
 A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. T^y 
 
 Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, x2mo» with four illustrations by J. Watsoo 
 
 Davis, Price, $i.oo. 
 
 A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary 
 scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true 
 American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, untlt 
 the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story Is ft 
 eingularly charming Idyl. 
 
 THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the^Times of I^adj 
 Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, xamo. witi 
 ffour illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $i.oo. 
 
 This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, 
 prison and fortress, with maay historical associations. The era Is the 
 middle of the sixteenth century. 
 
 The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, 
 and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, Introducing other notable char- 
 acters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader 
 In the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over » 
 half a century. -% 
 
 IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution 
 3y Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, X2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watsofi 
 Davis. Price, $1.00^ 
 
 Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery^ 
 and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the 
 Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a 
 Ipart in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing 
 that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance 
 fit is charming. 
 
 GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth 
 32mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 "This Is a little Idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid t>are befor« 
 us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of 
 Welsh character— the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath 
 o = . We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its 
 {romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and 
 clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent,"— Detroit Free 
 Press, 
 
 MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth 
 32mo. with four illustrations by J, Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 "This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care it 
 read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters. It is ap- 
 parent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them 
 all personally. Simple in all Hts situations, the story Is worked up in that. 
 touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how 
 often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true. av4- 
 does not tax the imagination '^Boston Herald*.