Andy had not relinquished the letter. "I can read it for ye," he
volunteered.

"I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye." Uncle William reached out
a hand for it.

Andy's fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been
allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle
William's spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle
William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of
news.

Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. "Now,
that's good. He's finished up five on 'em."

"Five what?"

"Picters," responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. "There's one
of my house,"--lofty pride held the voice,--"and one of the cove down
below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill,
this side of your place. Now, that's quite a nice lot, ain't it?"

"What's he going to do with 'em," asked Andy.

"There's a kind of exhibit goin' on." Uncle William consulted the
letter. "'The Exhibition of American Artists'--suthin' like a fair, I
take it. And he's goin' to send 'em."

"Thinks he'll take a prize, I s'pose." Andy's tone held fine scepticism.