"I haven't been eating much."

"I shouldn't think you had." Uncle William spoke dryly. "You needn't be
a mite afraid o' one o' my chowders. A baby could eat 'em, if it had got
its teeth."

The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle
William refused him sternly. "You jest wait awhile," he said, bearing
away the empty plate. "There ain't more'n enough for a comfortable dish
for me. You don't want to eat it all, do you?"

"No," said the artist, flushing.

"I thought not." It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion,
and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of the
great jaw as it went slowly back and forth.

When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat
by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed
as the artist stirred. "You've had a good long sleep." He laid a hand on
the moist forehead. "That's good. Fever's gone."

"It will come back. It always does." There was anxious dread in the
tone.

"It won't this time." Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. "I know
how you feel--kind o' scared to believe anything--anything that's good."

The artist smiled. "_You_ never felt that way!"