“It _is_ a 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 atmosphere _is_ fine,” 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 I _do_ take 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.”