right, scoochin' a little."

The young man smiled. "I don't know that they're accepted."

"Why not--if she sent 'em?"

"Oh, she sent them all right. They may have been refused."

"At an exhibit?"

"Yes."

"Well, up our way we don't do like that. We take everything that comes
in--pies and pickles and bedquilts and pumpkins and everything; putty
triflin' stuff, some of it, but they take it. This is different, I
s'pose?"

"A little. Yes. They only take the best--or what they call the best."
The tone was bitter.

Uncle William looked at him mildly. "Then they took yourn--every one on
'em. They was as good picters as I ever see."

The artist's face lightened a little. "They _were_ good." His thought
dwelt on them lovingly.

Uncle William slipped quietly away to his room. The artist heard him
moving about, opening and shutting bureau drawers, humming gently and
fussing and talking in broken bits. Time passed. It was growing dark in
the room.

The artist turned a little impatiently. "Hallo there!"

Uncle William stuck out his head. "Want suthin'?"

"What are you doing?" said the artist. It was almost querulous.

Uncle William came out, smoothing his neckerchief. It was a new one,
blue like the sky. "I was fixin' up a little to go see her. Do I look
to suit you?" He moved nearer in the dusk with a kind of high pride.
The tufts of hair stood erect on his round head, the neckerchief had
a breezy knot with fluttering ends, and the coat hung from his great
shoulders like a sail afloat.

The artist looked him over admiringly. "You're great!" he said. "How did
you come to know enough not to change?"

"I've changed everything!" declared Uncle William. His air of pride
drooped a little.

The artist laughed out. "I mean you kept your same kind of clothes. A
good many people, when they come down here to New York, try to dress
like other folks--get new things."

Uncle William's face cleared. He looked down his great bulk with a
smile. "I like my own things," he said. "I feel to home in 'em."

XIII

Uncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the card
tacked on the panel. "Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin."

He knocked gently.

"Come in." The call came clear and straight.

Uncle William opened the door.

A girl sat at a table across the room, her eyes protected by a green
shade from the lamp that burned near and threw its light on the page she
was copying. She glanced up