triumphant. "I've put 'em a-soak," he explained. The table-spread, with
its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and
books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners,
dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. "Might
's well start fresh." He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying
it proudly. "What's that door?" He pointed across the room.

"It's your bedroom," said the artist, a little uneasily. "But I don't
believe you can get in."

Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked
in. He came back beaming. "The' 's quite a nice lot of room," he said,
taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.

The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The
window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there,
but Uncle William's path was a success. The sun was coming over the tops
of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with shining face.

"You reely needed a man around," he said. "I'm putty glad I come."

"What made you come?" asked the artist.

"What made me?" Uncle William paused, looking about him. "Where's my
spectacles? Must 'a' left 'em in there." He disappeared once more.

While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when
he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of
something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man's head, raising it
while he drank.