too." He said it almost irascibly.

The girl sighed softly. "Well, he may have been romancing. Frenchmen
do--at times--"

"I call it lying," snorted Uncle William.

"Yes, yes." She patted his arm. "But can't you understand how you would
feel if you saw something beautiful--some place that made you feel the
way you used to feel when you were a child? You might think for a moment
that you had really been there, and say it--without meaning to tell a
lie. That's what I meant."

Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. "You do put that mighty
nice, don't you? You 'most make me believe I could do it, and I guess
mebbe I could. But Andy couldn't," he added, with conviction.

The girl followed her thought. "And what does it matter--if he buys the
pictures."

"Well, it matters some," said Uncle William, slowly. "I dunno 's I want
a liar, not a real liar, ownin' a picter o' my house. But if he jest
romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem different somehow."


When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. "I should like
to see him again," she said, waiting.

"Like enough," said Uncle William, gently--"like enough. But I reckon he
don't need you just now." He held her hand, looking down at her kindly.