hen he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat
by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed
as the artist stirred. "You've had a good long sleep." He laid a hand on
the moist forehead. "That's good. Fever's gone."

"It will come back. It always does." There was anxious dread in the
tone.

"It won't this time." Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. "I know
how you feel--kind o' scared to believe anything--anything that's good."

The artist smiled. "_You_ never felt that way!"

"Jest that way," said Uncle William. "I didn't _want_ to believe I
wa'n't al'ays goin' to be sick. I kep' kind o' thinkin' I'd rather be
sick'n not--jest as if the devil had me."

"Yes"--the young man spoke almost eagerly--"it's the way I've been! Only
I didn't know it till you said so."

"The' 's a good many things we don't know--not jest exactly know--till
somebody says 'em."

They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.

"I've done some queer things," said the artist.

"Like enough." Uncle William did not ask what they were.

"They begin to look foolish." He turned his head a little.

"Do you good--best thing in the world."

"I don't see how I _could_." The tone was uneasy. "I must have been
beastly to her."

Uncle William said nothing.

"She didn't tell you?" The artist was looking at him.

"She? Lord, no! women don't tell anything you've done to 'em--not if
it's anything bad."

"I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept coming
back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take care of
me." He was not looking at Uncle William.

"And you wouldn't let her?"

"I couldn't--There was no money," he said at last.

Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. "Comf'tabul place,"
he said.

The artist flushed. "She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have
turned me out long since. I haven't asked, but I know she pays it. There
is no one else."

"She is rich, probably," said Uncle William.

"Rich?" The young man smiled bitterly. "She has what she earns. She
works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing for
either of us."

"Not unless suthin' come in," said Uncle William. "Suthin' might come
in. You'd kind o' like to see her, wouldn't you?"

The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. "Not till I can pay her
back, every cent!"

"Guess you need another pill, likely," said Uncle William. He got up in
the d