betwixt and between--" He looked at her appealingly, yet with a little
twinkle somewhere below.

"I see." Sergia's face was dancing. "The names _do_ help."

"That's it," said Uncle William, gallantly. "If he'd 'a' read off
the names, or stopped quite a spell between the pieces, I'd 'a' done
fust-rate. He was playin' 'em nice. I could see the folks liked 'em." He
smiled at her kindly.

Sergia smiled back. "Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they
understand him--when they know which it is." Her smile had grown frank,
like a boy's. "But which did you like best of all?"

"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