"Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen'ally do; and I can't get far out o'
the way with this." He touched the compass that hung from the fob of
the great watch. "I've been putty much all over the world with that.
I reckon it'll p'int about the same in New York as it does in Arichat.
Now, I've got your breakfast 'most ready, but I can't seem to remember
about your coffee.--You take sugar and milk in it, don't you?"

"Yes." The tone was almost sulky.

Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. "I don't
believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?"

The artist's face changed subtly--like a child's. It was almost
cheerful.

Uncle William laughed out. "That's better--a little mite better. I guess
'bout day after to-morrow you'll do to see company."

The young man stretched out a hand. "I _must_ see her. I shall get up--"

"There, there. I wouldn't try to get up if I was you," said Uncle
William, genially. "I've put away your clothes, different places. I
don't jest know where they be, myself. It'll be quite a chore to get 'em
all together. You jest lie still, and let me manage."

The young man ate his breakfast with relish. A subtle resolve to get up
and do things was in his eye.

Uncle William watched it, chuckling. "Sha'n't be able to keep him there
more'n a day longer," he said. "Better feed him well whilst I can." He