nodded toward the picture. "She may not go to church and I don't doubt but what she has tantrums, but she's better'n we be, and she—What did you say her name was?"

"Sergia Lvova."

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

"She's Russian."

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

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

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

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

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

"She does sing. How did you know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV

The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling their ropes.