The young man looked at him helplessly. "I can't get along without you.
You know I need you."

"Yes, I know you need me," said Uncle William. "I kind o' counted on
that." He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then out of the
dust and clatter to beam on the young man. "Now, don't you worry a mite.
You're goin' to get well and earn money and come back and pay her, and
everything's comin' out all right."


In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with
them, asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The
artist looked at the tickets a little enviously. "I should like to go,
myself," he said. "It's the first view." He glanced at Uncle William
appealingly.

The old man ignored it. "You couldn't go, noways," he said; "not if
we're goin' to start to-morrow."

The artist sighed. He was sitting in an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket,
a pillow behind his head. "I don't suppose I could." He sighed again.

Uncle William looked at him keenly. "The' 's a good deal of leg-work to
an exhibit, ain't they?"

"Yes." The artist smiled faintly.

Uncle William nodded. "I thought so. Well, it's all _you_ can do to
set in a chair with a piller behind you. I wouldn't say no more about