ither side of you--for half a mile." A kind of mellow enthusiasm held
the tone.

The young man smiled. "You _are_ a hermit. Suppose somebody should build
next you?"

"They can't."

"Why not?"

"I own it."

"A mile?"

The old man nodded. "Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But
where anybody could build I own." He said it almost exultantly. "I
guess maybe I'm part Indian." He smiled apologetically. "I can't seem to
breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once, how
I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I'm
what they call around here 'land-poor.'" He said it with satisfaction.
"I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it's 's
much as I can do to keep the _Jennie_ patched up and going. But I'm
comfortable. I don't really want for anything."

"Yes, you're comfortable." The young man glanced about the snug room.

"There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me." He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I'm goin' to make
things snug and put down the other anchor," he said. "You stay till I
come back and we'll have suthin' hot."

He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its
hook, went out into the night.

Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It
glowed. The cat purred in its depths.

III

The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The
face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from
the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and
the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been
leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and
spare, with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind.
. . . How she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched
aloft in the gale!

A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted
itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With
a snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on
Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out.
His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the
fire, shaking it off.

"It's goin' to blow all right," he said, nodding to the artist.

"And it's raining. You're wet."

"Well, not _wet_, so to speak." He took off his hat, shaking it lightly
over the stove.