prepared clam-broth and toast, and wondered about an omelet, rolling in
and out of the room with comfortable gait.

The artist ate everything that was set before him, eagerly. The resolve
in his eye yielded to appreciation. "You ought to have been a chef,
Uncle William. I never tasted anything better than that." He was eating
a last bit of toast, searching with his fork for stray crumbs.

Uncle William nodded. "The' 's a good many things I'd o't to 'a' been
if I'd had time. That's the trouble with livin'. You don't hev time. You
jest practise a day or two on suthin'--get kind o' ust to it--and then
you up and hev to do suthin' else. I like cookin' fust rate while I'm
doin' it. . . . I dunno as I _should_ like it reg'lar, though. It'd be
kind o' fiddlin' work, gettin' up and makin' omelets every mornin'."

"You're an artist," said the young man.

"Mebbe. Don't you think you've licked that plat about clean?" Uncle
William looked at it approvingly. "It ain't much work to wash dishes for
you."

At intervals during the day the artist demanded his clothes, each time
a little more vigorously. Uncle William put him off. "I don't see that
picter of my house anywheres 'round," he said when pressed too close.

"No."

"You sent it off?"

"Yes." The young man was silent a minute. "Sergia took them--all of