Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate justice.
"If I was you--"

A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the
door.

"What is it?" The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching
out a hand. "What is it? Give it to me."

Uncle William examined the lines slowly. "Why, it seems to be for me,"
he said kindly. "I dunno anybody that'd be writin' to me."

He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice
and shaking his head.

The artist had sunk back, indifferent.

"Why!" The paper rustled in Uncle William's hand. He looked up. "She's
gone!" he said.

The artist started up, glaring at him.

Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. "Like as not we
sha'n't see her again, ever."

The artist's hand groped. "What is it?" he whispered.

"She's gone--left in the night."

"She will come back." The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face