It held a note of satisfaction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you been there?"

"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and one thing and another, and I sailed a