XIV

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floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with drifting strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn.

The old man looked at her inquiringly. “They hain’t begun?”

She shook her head. “They’re tuning up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Putty girls,” said Uncle William, cordially.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You goin’ to do one?” asked Uncle William.

“Yes, one.” She smiled at him.

“I’ll stay.” He settled back comfortably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can ye?—Right in the center here?” Uncle William was interested.

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

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

The old gentleman had laughed out genially. “MacDowell doesn’t write poetry, except short things—lines for headings. He makes it on the piano.”

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

“Well—something like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest!” rolled out the voice.

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

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

“It’s Flanders. He plays the MacDowell—the ’Wandering Iceberg,’ you know.”

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

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

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

The old gentleman shook his head.

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

Uncle William looked interested. “She’s gettin’ under way, like enough.

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

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

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

“All done. How did you like it?”

“Well”—Uncle William squinted thoughtfully at his program—“I thought I was goin’ to like it fust-rate—if he’d got to it.”

“He didn’t get there, then?” The man laughed.

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

“Ishould think it might be. Music isn’t cold enough.”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

Uncle William looked him over critically. “He don’t more’n half like it, does he?”

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

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

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

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

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

“They all done?” he demanded.

“Yes. Did you like the sea pieces?”

“I liked ’em. Yes—I liked ’em.” Uncle William’s tone was moderate.

Sergia was smiling at him a little. “The ’Depths of the Ocean’—you liked that best, didn’t you?”

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

“I see.” Sergia’s face was dancing. “The namesdohelp.”

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

Sergia smiled back. “Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they understand him—when they know which it is.” Her smile had grown frank, like a boy’s. “But which did you like best of all?”

“Of the hull thing?” he demanded. He looked down at the 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 thumb on a number.

Sergia and the old gentleman bent to look. It was the Beethoven sonata.

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 addicted to MacDowell.

Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the lock. “That’s good,” said Uncle William. 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’ll perk considabul when he hears about them picters,” said Uncle William.

But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming—Sergia?”

Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t seem to remember ’t she said so.”

“Whatdidshe say?” The tone was imperative.

“Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that—as well as I could.”

“Didn’t you tell her I wanted to see her?”

“Yes, I told her that.” Uncle William’s voice was impartial.

“Well?”

“She didn’t seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I’d hurry up and get well so ’s to go seeher.”

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.

But the artist had 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, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door.

“What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching 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 Uncle William’s hand. He looked up. “She’s gone!” he said.

The artist started up, glaring at him.

Uncle William shook his head, looking 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 his face

Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “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, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little.

The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. “You were talking abouther?” The words were a whisper.

Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Didn’t you hear me say so?”

There was a long silence. “I thought you meant—Sergia.”

“Sergia!—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 William’s sides shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia didn’t run away. She’ll stan’ 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.”

“It didn’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, hesitating. “I couldn’t get ready—”

“I’llget ye ready.”

“We might—in a week?”

“I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I’ve got to look up Juno. She’ll like enough get desperate—drown herself the first thing I know.I’mgoin’ to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I’ll pack ye up.”

The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along without you. You know I need you.”

“Yes, I know you need me,” said 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 everything’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 couldn’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 pillow behind his head. “I don’t suppose 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. Well, it’s allyoucan do to set in a chair with a piller behind you. I wouldn’t say no more about picters if I was you.” He took down the mirror and laid it between two cushions, holding 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 better’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 firmly in place. “I cal’ate to have everything ready so ’s to get an early start.”

“She wouldn’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 young 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.”

The girl looked up from her copying. Uncle William stood in the doorway, beaming on her. She got up quickly. “You are early.”

Uncle William held out a hand detainingly. “You set right down and go to work. I come early a-purpose. 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 William settled himself in his chair with a breath of relief.

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’—wanting his own way a good deal. If I was home, I wouldn’t mind it a mite. I’d go outdoor 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 breath. “It’s worseoutdoor ’n ’t isin.”

“You mind the noise, don’t you?” She was looking at him sympathetically.

“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, 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 wasn’t any one.”

“There was me.”

“Yes. Ididask you when I couldn’t go on.”

“That wa’n’t the way. Somebody 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.” She 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.

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 wust of it,” said Uncle William. “You found him and he fell sick, and you had him to take care on—cross as two sticks some of the time.” He regarded her mildly.

“Youdon’t think so,” she said.

“Well, mebbe not, mebbe not,” responded 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.

“Sooner the better,” said Uncle William. “It’ll 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 little turns and touches of feminine pleasure.

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, reproachfully.

“No, I wa’n’t laughing, so to speak,” returned Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ what a sight o’ comfort there is in 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 o’ 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 o’ 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 different they turned out—made o’ the same kind o’ stuff, so.”

“Don’t you suppose he meant it?” She was smiling under the frilling lace.

“Well, like enough,” returned Uncle William, thoughtfully. “It’s like the rest o’ the world—kind o’ comical and big. Like enough he did plan it that way.”

The room was filled with the hum of light—faces and flowers and color everywhere. Uncle William walked among them erect, overtopping the crowd, his gaze, for the most part, on the sky-line. Sergia, beside him, seemed a slight figure. Glances followed 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 unhindered. To Sergia the experience was more novel, and she watched the crowd and the pictures and the old man moving serene among them, with amused eyes. Once she called his attention to a celebrated painter in the crowd. Uncle William’s eye rested impartially 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 muchtohim—as if the Lord was kind o’ skimped for material. Is that one o’hispicters?”

Her eyes 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. “Middlin’ plumb,” he 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 straightened 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.”

“Itisa 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 wouldn’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.

“The atmosphereisfine,” 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’ o’ 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 wouldn’t blow.” His eyes were on the shifting green waves. “I never put down a net nor a lobster-pot that I didn’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 Idotake life comf’tabul. The’ ain’t a place anywheres ’round to set and rest, is the’? You look to me kind o’ used up.”

“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 intently. 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 spectacles. “That kind o’ peaked one, you mean, that dips along some like a government 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 o’ trimmin’ on, but he looks like a nice sort o’ 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, itis,” she said under her breath. “It is.”

Uncle William looked down almost jealously. “You set a good deal o’ store by seein’ him,” he said.

“It isn’t that. I like him, yes, but he knows good work. If he really takes them in, he’ll not let them go.”

Uncle William adjusted his spectacles again. “You mean—”

“He will buy them, yes. Hush!” She held out her hand.

The man had turned back to the pictures. 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’ll 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.

“You were? Could you?” she faced him.

“Couldn’t I have it as well as him?” He nodded toward the man in the distance intent on his catalogue.

The girl’s brow wrinkled a little. “He is rich,” she said. “I didn’t know—”

“Well, I ain’t rich,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I could scrape together 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 William drew a proud breath. “How much will it cost?” he said.

She took up the catalogue from her 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 jest 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 didn’t cost more’n three hunderd, all told, and I thought a picter of it wouldn’t cost more’n five or six.”

“Five or six hundred?” Her eyes laughed.

Uncle William shook his head guiltily. “Not more’n five or six dollars,” he said. “I reckon mebbe Ididput it a leetle low.” A smile had bloomed again in his face. “If he can pay the price, he’ll 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 hundreds. 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 legation at St. Petersburg—See! Hedoeslike them!” She had leaned forward.

Uncle William glanced up.

The man was standing a little removed 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 the changing 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 with 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 s’pose ye told him about Alan and about my place.”

She stopped short, looking at him reproachfully. “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, I’ll 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 expectantly toward the door.

When he saw them, he smiled and moved forward with suave grace.

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