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 about _her_?” 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’ll_ get 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’m_ goin’ 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.”