"I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept coming
back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take care of
me." He was not looking at Uncle William.

"And you wouldn't let her?"

"I couldn't--There was no money," he said at last.

Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. "Comf'tabul place,"
he said.

The artist flushed. "She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have
turned me out long since. I haven't asked, but I know she pays it. There
is no one else."

"She is rich, probably," said Uncle William.

"Rich?" The young man smiled bitterly. "She has what she earns. She
works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing for
either of us."

"Not unless suthin' come in," said Uncle William. "Suthin' might come
in. You'd kind o' like to see her, wouldn't you?"

The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. "Not till I can pay her
back, every cent!"

"Guess you need another pill, likely," said Uncle William. He got up in
the dark and groped about for the bottle. His great form loomed large