“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. XV 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.” “What _did_ she 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 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. 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.”