"He'll perk considabul when he hears about them picters," said Uncle
William.

But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his
great news, the artist ignored it. "Is she coming--Sergia?"

Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. "Now, I can't seem
to remember 't she said so."

"What _did_ she say?" The tone was imperative.

"Well, she asked how you was gettin' along. I told her that--as well as
I could."

"Didn't you tell her I wanted to see her?"

"Yes, I told her that." Uncle William's voice was impartial.

"Well?"

"She didn't seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I'd hurry up
and get well so 's to go see _her_."

The artist's face had grown hard. "I shall not go until I can carry her
the money in my hand--all that I owe her."

"Is 't a good deal?" asked Uncle William.

But the artist had turned his face to the wall.