never was on sea or land," he called it,--and he had worked feverishly.
He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through
his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity.
"They will call it my third style," said the artist, smiling, as he
worked. "They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn't do
it--I shall never do it again," and he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.
To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things
he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he said,
nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he
said indifferently.

The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"

"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money stan'in'
with your hands in your pockets."

"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the
hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them
merrily.

"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife
toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."

"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The tone held