Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of
sternness. "I dunno," he says. "When a man treats her like Andy has, she
must kind o' hate him--like pizen."

The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath
his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. "What are you talking
about?"

"I'm talkin' about that." Uncle William held out the letter. "It's from
Andy, and Juno's left him. Took to the woods. She couldn't stan' havin'
him round, I guess." Uncle William chuckled a little.

The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue.
"You were talking about _her_?" The words were a whisper.

Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. "Didn't you hear me say
so?"

There was a long silence. "I thought you meant--Sergia."

"Sergia!--What!" Uncle William looked down at the letter. A light dawned
slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle sounded
somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. "You
thought I meant--her!" Uncle William's sides shook gently. "Lord, no!
Sergia didn't run away. She'll stan' by till the last man's hung. She's
that kind."

"I know." The tone was jealous. "I ought to know."