"Trying to."

"'Bout a thousand dollars' wuth, I s'pose?"

"Not ten cents' worth."

"Sho, now! Is that so?" He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending
above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling.
"'Tis kind o' dobby," he admitted. "Mebbe you'll do better to-morrow."

"Maybe. Was there a letter for me?"

The old man shook his head. "Nary letter.--I reckon 't ain't time yet,"
he added consolingly.

The young man looked gloomily at the water. "She must be ill."

"Busy, more likely," said Uncle William.

"It's been six weeks."

"You're feelin' putty well," said Uncle William.

"I shall go down to-morrow," said the young man. He had begun to gather
up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear
color ran beneath the tan of his face.

Uncle William watched him with a little smile. "I dunno's I'd go
to-morrow. You could go next week if you don't hear nuthin'."