as placidly as William himself. If there was dawning
in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the time
came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that surveyed
Uncle William's movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now and then
Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of adjusting a tin
on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes
Uncle William followed the advice. It generally failed to work.

It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a
letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and
placed them on his nose with a genial smile.

Andy had not relinquished the letter. "I can read it for ye," he
volunteered.

"I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye." Uncle William reached out
a hand for it.

Andy's fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been
allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle
William's spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle
William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of
news.

Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. "Now,
that's good. He's finished up five on 'em."

"Five what?"

"Picters," responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. "There's one
of my house,"--lofty pride held the voice,--"and one of the cove down
below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill,
this side of your place. Now, that's quite a nice lot, ain't it?"

"What's he going to do with 'em," asked Andy.

"There's a kind of exhibit goin' on." Uncle William consulted the
letter. "'The Exhibition of American Artists'--suthin' like a fair, I
take it. And he's goin' to send 'em."

"Thinks he'll take a prize, I s'pose." Andy's tone held fine scepticism.

"Well, I dunno. He don't say nuthin' about a prize. He does kind o' hint
that he'll be sendin' me suthin' pretty soon. I guess likely there'll
be prizes. He o't to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters,
fust-rate--"

"The whole lot wa'n't wuth the _Jennie_." Andy spoke with sharp
jealousy.

"Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?"

"_I_ don't care," sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and
arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.

Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.

"It's your move, Andy."

Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of
the gam