the door, gentle as a woman's, brought no response. He rapped again.

"What's wanted?" It was the querulous voice of a sick man.

Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind
him for his box.

The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim
light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.

Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. "There, there," he
said soothingly. "I guess I'd lie down." He put his hands on the young
man's shoulders, pushing him back gently.

The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes.
"Who--are--you?" he said. The words were a whisper.

Uncle Williams' smile deepened. "I guess ye know _me_ all right, don't
ye?"

The artist continued to stare at him. "You came through the door. It was
locked."

"Shucks, no!" said Uncle William. "'T wa'n't locked any more'n I be. You
jest forgot it."

"Did I?" The tense look broke. "I thought you had come again."

"Well, I hev."