.
"If I was you--"

A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the
door.

"What is it?" The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching
out a hand. "What is it? Give it to me."

Uncle William examined the lines slowly. "Why, it seems to be for me,"
he said kindly. "I dunno anybody that'd be writin' to me."

He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice
and shaking his head.

The artist had sunk back, indifferent.

"Why!" The paper rustled in Uncle William's hand. He looked up. "She's
gone!" he said.

The artist started up, glaring at him.

Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. "Like as not we
sha'n't see her again, ever."

The artist's hand groped. "What is it?" he whispered.

"She's gone--left in the night."

"She will come back." The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face

Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of
sternness. "I dunno," he says. "When a man treats her like Andy has, she
must kind o' hate him--like pizen."

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