"Yes, you ought to know." Uncle William left the moral to take care of
itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about the
room, giving things what he called "a lick and a promise."

"You were late last night," said the artist, watching him.

"Yes, considabul late," said Uncle William. He had come upon another
pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was brushing
it up, whistling softly. "You must 'a' smoked a good deal," he said,
rapping out the ashes. "I've been sweepin' 'em up ever since I come."

"I did. It helped me forget."

"It didn't help you get well, I reckon," said Uncle William. "What you
need," he added, "is fresh air and wind--and rocks."

The artist mused. "It would seem good."

The old man had paused in his work. "Will you go--to-morrow?"

The artist looked about him, hesitating. "I couldn't get ready--"

"_I'll_ get ye ready."

"We might--in a week?"

"I can't wait," said Uncle William, decisively. "I've got to look up
Juno. She'll like enough get desperate--drown herself the first thing I
know. _I'm_ goin' to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I'll pack
ye up."