it," he said nodding. "She's the sort--same look--eager and kind o'
waitin'." He looked up. "How'd you come to know her? You been there?"

"In Russia? No. She's not there now. She's in New York. She lives
there."

"Is that so? Poor thing!" Uncle William looked at the pictured face with
compassion.

The artist smiled. "Oh, it's not so bad. She's happy."

"Yes, she's happy. I can see that easy enough. She's the kind that's
goin' to be happy." He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes. "You
couldn't put her anywheres she wouldn't sing--"

"She _does_ sing. How did you know?"

Uncle William's eyes twinkled to the boyish face. "Well, I didn't _know_
it--not jest that way. I didn't know as she sung songs on a platform,
dressed up, like I've heard 'em. What I meant was, her heart kind o'
bubbles and sings--"

"Yes"--the artist leaned forward--"that is Sergia. It's the way she
is. She doesn't sing in public. But her voice"--his eyes grew dark--"it
makes you want to laugh and cry. It's like the wind and the sun
shining--" He broke off, listening.

The old man's eyes dwelt on him kindly. "She's with her folks, is she?"

He roused himself. "She hasn't any. They all died over there--her father