table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and
then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of
the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little
resentment grazing the edges of it.




XXIII

The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was
in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the
water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with
kindling eye.

His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been
trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the
water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl
held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished
in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over--to wait for.
Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it
could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke--he would
wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.

A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It
was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. "Hello." He climbed up and
seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun.
"I reckoned I'd find ye here. Been doin' her?" He nodded toward the
horizon.