smiled cheerfully.

"Can I see her?"

"We'll see about that. I've got a good many things to tend to." Uncle
William bustled away.

After a time his head was thrust in the door. "I'll go see her, myself,
byme-by," he said kindly. "Mebbe she'll come back with me."

"It's too late now." The artist spoke a little bitterly.

"Too late!" Uncle William came out, reproachful and surprised. "What
d'you mean?"

"It's quarter to nine. She goes to work at nine. She has pupils--she
teaches all day."

Uncle William's face dropped a little. "That's too bad now, ain't it!
But don't you mind. I wa'n't just certain I'd let you see her to-day,
anyhow."

"When can I?"

Uncle William pondered. "You're in a good deal of a hurry, ain't you?"

"I want to tell her--"

"Yes, yes, I know. Well, 'bout to-morrow. How'd that do?"

"You could send her a note," said the artist.

"I'm goin' to see her," said Uncle William. "She'll be to home this
evenin', won't she?"

"Yes."

"I'll go see her."

The artist looked doubtful.

"Can't I got see her?" said Uncle William.

"I was wondering whether you could find the way."

"H'm-m. Where'd you say it was?"

"Eighteenth Street, near Broadway."

"Eighteenth? That's somewheres between Seventeenth and Nineteenth, ain't
it?" said Uncle William, dryly.

"Yes." The artist smiled faintly.

Uncle William nodded. "I thought so. And I don't s'pose they've changed
the lay of Broadway a gre' deal?"

"No--not much."

"Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen'ally do; and I can't get far out o'
the way with this." He touched the compass that hung from the fob of
the great watch. "I've been putty much all over the world with that.
I reckon it'll p'int about the same in New York as it does in Arichat.
Now, I've got your breakfast 'most ready, but I can't seem to remember
about your coffee.--You take sugar and milk in it, don't you?"

"Yes." The tone was almost sulky.

Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. "I don't
believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?"

The artist's face changed subtly--like a child's. It was almost
cheerful.

Uncle William laughed out. "That's better--a little mite better. I guess
'bout day after to-morrow you'll do to see company."

The young man stretched out a hand. "I _must_ see her. I shall get up--"

"There, there. I wouldn't try to get up if I was you," said Uncle
William, genially. "I've put away your clothes,