and falling across the bay. "Putty good," he said approvingly. "You've
got it just about the way it looks--"

"Just about," assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. "Just
about. Thank you."

Uncle William nodded. "Cur'us, ain't it? there's a lot in the way you
see a thing."

"There certainly is," said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes
across the canvas. "There certainly is. I've been studying that water
for two hours. I never thought of lobsters." He laughed happily.

Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. "That's nateral enough," he
said kindly. "You hain't been seein' it every day for sixty year, the
way I hev." He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height.

"What's the good of being an artist if I can't see things that you
can't?" demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.

"Well, what _is_ the use? I dunno; do you?" said Uncle William,
genially. "I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've
been sailin'," he went on--"how them artists come up here summer after
summer makin' picters,--putty poor, most on 'em,--and what's the use?
I can see better ones settin' out there in my boat, any day.--Not but
that's better'n some," he added politely, indicating the half-finished
canvas.

The young man laughed. "Thanks to you," he said. "Come on in and make
a chowder. It's too late to do any more to-day--and that's enough." He