"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon."
He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.

The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists
have said," he commented.

Uncle William nodded. "Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had
sixty year of livin', off and on."

"But you'll die poor," said the artist, with a glance about the little
room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his
curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways.
"You'll die poor if you don't look out," he said again.

"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make my
fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He eyed
the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them glasses and we'll mix a
little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed."

The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He glanced
at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You
couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path. I'll
jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate bed;
I've slep' on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin' you'll
be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass