great figure, beamed upon it all. He was used to making his way through
a crowd unhindered. To Sergia the experience was more novel, and she
watched the crowd and the pictures and the old man moving serene among
them, with amused eyes. Once she called his attention to a celebrated
painter in the crowd. Uncle William's eye rested impartially upon him
for a moment and returned to its sky-line. "He looks to me kind o'
pindlin'. One o' the best, is he?"

"He's not strong, you mean?"

"Well, not strong, and not much _to_ him--as if the Lord was kind o'
skimped for material. Is that one o' _his_ picters?"

Her eyes followed his hand. "Alan's! Come." They moved quickly to it
across the larger room. "They are all here." Her glance had swept the
walls. "In the best light, too." She moved eagerly from one to the
other. "See how well they are hung."

Uncle William's eye surveyed them. "Middlin' plumb," he assented. "That
fu'ther one looks to me a leetle mite off the level. It's the one o' my
house, too." He moved toward it and straightened the frame with careful
hand, then he stepped back, gazing at it with pride. "Putty good, ain't
it?" he said.

She smiled, quietly. "Perfect. He has never done anything so good."

"It _is_ a putty nice house," said Uncle William. His eye dwelt on it
fondly. "I'd a'most forgot how nice it was. You see that little cloud
there--that one jest over the edge? That means suthin' 'fore mornin'."
He lifted his hand to it. "I wouldn't trust a sky like that--not without