glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the
young man, who was working with serene touch--oblivious to the bay.
Uncle William looked through the glass again--a long, slow look. Then he
slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. "Comin' in
to dinner, Andy?"

Andy looked up mildly. "I reckon Harr'et's waitin' for me." He got
slowly to his feet. "You've got another done, I s'pose?" He glanced
enviously at the easel.

The artist laughed out. "Want to see it?" He withdrew his hand.

Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin
crept into this face, and spread. "You've made me look kind o' queer,
hain't you?" He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.

Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his
spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great
nose. "It's Andy!" he said with shrewd delight. "It's Andy! And it's the
spittin' image of him!" He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.

Andrew returned the look somberly. "It's a good likeness, you think, do
you?"

"Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn't be better." Uncle William laid an
affectionate hand on his shoulder. "It looks jest as mean as you do--and
jest as good, too, Andy."

Andy cast a glance at the young man. "How long was ye makin' it?"