t strokes in the heavy cloth.
He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. "Wimmen
folks is a good deal alike," he remarked dryly. "They like to be
comf'tabul."

"Some of them," assented the artist.

The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. "So-o?" he said.

The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand
touched it. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Why, nuthin', nuthin'," said Uncle William, soothingly. "Only I thought
you was occupied with art and so on--"?

"I am."

Uncle William said nothing.

Presently the artist leaned forward. "Do you want to see her?" he said.
He was holding it out.

Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the
spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he
reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone
from his face. It was full of gentleness.

Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.

The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The
old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to
hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.

Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied
look. "You've had a good deal more sense'n I was afraid you'd have," he
said dryly.

The artist woke. "You can't tell--from that." He held out his hand.

Uncle William gave it up, slowly. "I can tell more'n you'd think,
perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike--some ways a good deal alike. I've
lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds of
doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be." He chuckled
softly. "Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,"--he waved his
hand,--"but she's big and she's fresh--salt, too--and she makes your
heart big just to look at her--the way it ought to, I reckon. There's
things about her I don't know," he nodded toward the picture. "She may
not go to church and I don't doubt but what she has tantrums, but she's
better'n we be, and she--What did you say her name was?"

"Sergia Lvova."

"Sergia Lvova," repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease.
"That's a cur'us name. I've heard suthin' like it, somewhere--"

"She's Russian."

"Russian--jest so! I might'n' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up
to St. Petersburg. Now there's a country that don't hev breathin' space.
She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her-