Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers.
A touch of spring was in the air, but the _Andrew Halloran_ rocked alone
at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her.
Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the
artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at the letter in
his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman's
handwriting.

He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious
fingers. A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the
floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it a
little bashfully and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before
him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously.
As he read, an anxious line came between his eyes. "Now, that's too
bad--sick in bed--I want to know--Well, well! Pshaw, you needn't 'a'
done that! Of course I'll go." He picked up the bluish slip and looked
at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat surveying the
red room. He shook his head slowly. "He must be putty sick to feel like
that," he said.

He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly.


"MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the artist
who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you that he is very
ill. He has not been well for two months or more, and for the last three
weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in his rooms alone and there is
no one to look after him. His friends have tried all along to have him
go to a hospital, or to let them take care of him. But until two or