Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping
a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a
full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o'clock of
winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and
the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an
uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the
stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered
about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had
women folks to do for him.

As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist--sometimes gay
and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the
letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. "He
don't seem to be makin' much money," he would say from time to time. The
letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle.
"He's got another done," Uncle William would respond: "that makes three;
that's putty good." Andy had ceased to ask about the money for the
boat--when it was coming. He seemed to have accepted the fact that there
would never be any, as placidly as William himself. If there was dawning
in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the time
came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that surveyed
Uncle William's movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now and then
Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of adjusting a tin
on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes
Uncle William followed the advice. It generally failed to work.

It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a
letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and
placed them on his nose with a genial smile.