least of all. He sat with one leg
swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out
to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic.
The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William
studied the approaching boat. "She's never been in these waters afore,"
he announced. "She's comin' in keerful." No one replied. Andy stared
at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the
glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the
young man, who was working with serene touch--oblivious to the bay.
Uncle William looked through the glass again--a long, slow look. Then he
slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. "Comin' in
to dinner, Andy?"

Andy looked up mildly. "I reckon Harr'et's waitin' for me." He got
slowly to his feet. "You've got another done, I s'pose?" He glanced
enviously at the easel.

The artist laughed out. "Want to see it?" He withdrew his hand.

Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin
crept into this face, and spread. "You've made me look kind o' queer,
hain't you?" He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.

Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his
spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great
nose. "It's Andy!" he said with shrewd delight. "It's Andy! And it's the
spittin' image of him!" He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.

Andrew returned the look somberly. "It's a good likeness, you think, do
you?"

"Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn't be better." Uncle William laid an
affectionate hand on his shoulder. "It looks jest as mean as you do--and
jest as good, too, Andy."

Andy cast a glance at the young man. "How long was ye makin' it?"

"Half an hour, perhaps; while we've been sitting here."

Andy sighed heavily. "Wuth more'n I be, too, I reckon?"

The artist stared at him.

"I mean--" Andy was almost apologetic. "I know they come high--picters.
I don't suppose I could afford to buy it of ye--"

The artist's face lighted. "Do you want it?"

"Harr'et might,"--cautiously,--"if 't wa'n't too high. She's got an
easel for it. She al'ays cal'ated to have me done, and she'd got as fur
as the easel." His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. "Willum
says it's a good likeness." He spoke with a kind of dubious pride.

"It _is_ good." The young man's eye rested on it affectionately. "It's a
rippi