“The house ain’t much to boast on,” said Uncle William, modestly. “The house?” The Frenchman stared at him politely. Uncle William motioned with his hand. “It’s a kind o’ ramshackle ol’ thing--no chimbley to speak of--” The man’s face cleared. “Oh, the house--a mere hut!” He dismissed it with a wave. Uncle William’s face wore a subdued look. “It might be comf’tabul inside,” he hazarded after a silence. The Frenchman stared again. “Comfortable? Oh, without doubt.” He granted the point in passing. “But the color in the rocks--do you see?--and the clear light and the sky--you see how it lifts itself!” His long finger made swift stabs here and there at the canvas. A little crowd had gathered near. Uncle William pushed his spectacles farther up on the tufts. His face glowed. “The sky is all right,” he said, “if ye know how to take it; but ye wouldn’t trust a sky like that, would ye?” The Frenchman turned to him, blinking a little. His glasses had slipped from his nose. They hung dangling from the end of the long chain. “Trust it?” he said vaguely. “It’s the real thing!” Uncle William’s face assumed an air of explanation. “It’s good as far as it goes. The’ ain’t anything the matter with it--not anything you can lay your finger on--not till you get over there, a little east by sou’east. Don’t you see anything the matter over there?” He asked the question with cordial interest. The Frenchman held the eyeglass chain in his fingers. He swung the glasses to his nose and stared at the spot indicated. Uncle William regarded him hopefully. The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.” He spoke in polite deprecation. “It seems to me very nearly perfect.” He faced it again. “I can breathe that air.” “So can I,” said Uncle William. “So can I.” They stood looking at it in silence. “It’ll be fo’-five hours before it strikes,” said Uncle William, thoughtfully. “Before it--” The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt look in his face wrinkled a little. “Before it strikes,” repeated Uncle William. “That cloud I p’inted out to you means business.” The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his eyes. He turned them on Uncle William. “I see. You were speaking of the weather?” “Wa’n’t you?” demanded Uncle William. “Well--partly. Yes, partly. But I’m afraid I was thinking how well it is done.” His face grew dreamy. “To think that paint and canvas and a few careless strokes--” “He worked putty hard,” broke in Uncle William. Sergia’s hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder. But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a cordial nod. “Of course--infinite patience. And then a thing like that!” he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of courteous salute--the obeisance due to royalty. Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. “They’re putty good rocks,” he said--“without paint.”