fust-rate. He was playin' 'em nice. I could see the folks liked 'em." He
smiled at her kindly.

Sergia smiled back. "Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they
understand him--when they know which it is." Her smile had grown frank,
like a boy's. "But which did you like best of all?"

"Of the hull thing?" he demanded. He looked down at the program. "They
was all nice," he said slowly--"real nice. I dunno when I've heard nicer
singin' 'n playin'. But I reckon that one was about the nicest of the
lot." He laid his big thumb on a number.

Sergia and the old gentleman bent to look. It was the Beethoven sonata.

Sergia glanced at the old gentleman. He met the glance, smiling. "A
tribute to our hostess," he said.

"A tribute to Beethoven," returned Sergia. Then, after a moment, she
laughed softly. Sergia was not addicted to MacDowell.




XV

Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was
sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in
the lock. "That's good," said Uncle William. He had slipped off his
shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood
looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow eyes.