She looked at him with open eyes.

"It's the way men be," said Uncle William. "The Lord knew how 't was, I
reckon, when he made 'em. He hadn't more'n got 'em done, 'fore he made
wimmen." He beamed on her genially. "He'll get well a good deal faster
if the' 's suthin' he thinks he wants and can't have."

"Yes. How will you keep him away?" A little twinkle sounded in her
voice.

"I'll take him home with me," said Uncle William, "up to Arichat."

"Now?"

"Well, in a day or two--soon's it's safe. It'd do anybody good." His
face grew wistful. "If you jest see it once, the way it is, you'd
know what I mean: kind o' big sweeps,"--he waved his arm over acres of
moor,--"an' a good deal o' sky--room enough for clouds, sizable ones,
and wind. You'd o't to hear our wind." He paused, helpless, before the
wind. He could not convey it.

"I _have_ heard it."

He stared at her. "You been there?"

"I've seen it, I mean--in Alan's pictures."

"Oh, them!" His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought hung on it.
"Where be they?" he asked.