The girl looked up from her copying. Uncle William stood in the doorway,
beaming on her. She got up quickly. “You are early.”
Uncle William held out a hand detainingly. “You set right down and go
to work. I come early a-purpose. I thought I’d like to set a spell and
watch ye.”
The girl resumed her copying. The lamp beside her shed its dull glow
on the page, and on her face and neck, as she bent to it. The dark room
rose mysteriously behind her. Uncle William settled himself in his chair
with a breath of relief.
When she had finished the copying she came across to him. “It is done
now.” She smiled to him through the dim light.
“Keeps you workin’ pretty steady, don’t it?” said Uncle William.
“Yes.” There was no complaint in the word.
Uncle William nodded. “I reckoned I’d find you doin’ it. That’s why I
come early. I kind o’ wanted a chance to set--where ’t was quiet and
things wa’n’t worryin’.”
She leaned forward. “Is he worse?”
“Well, not worse, so to speak, but kind o’ triflin’--wanting his own way
a good deal. If I was home, I wouldn’t mind it a mite. I’d go outdoor
and take two-three good whiffs, look at the water and see how things was
comin’ on. I’d be all right in no time. But here--” He drew a kind of
caged breath. “It’s worse _out_door ’n ’t is _in_.”
“You mind the noise, don’t you?” She was looking at him sympathetically.
“Well, ’t ain’t the noise so much,--I’ve heard the ocean roar,--it’s
folks. Pesters me havin’ ’em round--so many on ’em.”
Her look changed to a little wonder. “I should think you would like to
be with them. You help them.” She spoke the words softly, almost shyly.
The clear glow of her eyes rested on his face.
The face showed no pride. “Yes, I reckon I help ’em--some. There’s
gen’ally suthin’ to do, if you’re where folks be; but I have to get away
from ’em. Can’t breathe if I don’t. And there ain’t any place to go to.
I was feelin’ a good deal cooped up to-night, and then I thought o’ your
place here.” He moved his hand toward the dark recesses. “It’s kind o’
clean and high.”
They sat in silence, the girl’s head resting on her hand.
Uncle William watched her face in the half-light. “You’re gettin’ tired
and kind o’ peaked.”
She looked up. “I am resting.”
“Yes--yes, I know how it is. You stan’ all you can and byme-by you come
to a place you can rest in, and you jest rest--hard.”
“Yes.”
“You ought to ’a’ asked somebody to help ye,” said Uncle William,
gently.
“There wasn’t any one.”
“There was me.”
“Yes. I _did_ ask you when I couldn’t go on.”
“That wa’n’t the way. Somebody would ’a’ helped--your folks, like
enough--” He stopped, remembering.
“They are dead.”
He nodded. “I know. He told me. But I’d forgot--for a minute. They been
dead long?”
“Two years. It was before I came away--at home, in Russia. We were all
coming--father and mother and I, and my brother. Then they died; but I
wanted to be free.” She had flung out her arms with a light movement.
“It’s a dretful good place to get away from,” said Uncle William. “Nice
folks come from there, too. I never saw one that wa’n’t glad to come,”
he added.
She smiled. “I was glad; and I am glad I came here. It has been hard--a
little--but I found Alan.” Her voice sang.
“Some folks would say that was the wust of it,” said Uncle William. “You
found him and he fell sick, and you had him to take care on--cross as
two sticks some of the time.” He regarded her mildly.
“_You_ don’t think so,” she said.
“Well, mebbe not, mebbe not,” responded Uncle William. “I’m sort o’
queer, perhaps.”
She had turned to him half wistfully. “Don’t you think I might see
him--just a little while?”
Uncle William shook his head. “You’ve been too good to him. That’s the
wust of wimmen folks. What he needs now is a tonic--suthin’ kind o’
bitter.” He chuckled. “He’s got me.”
She smiled. “When are you going to take him away?”
“To-morrow.”
She started. “It is very soon,” she said softly.
“Sooner the better,” said Uncle William. “It’ll do us both good to
smell the sea.” He pulled out the great watch. “Must be ’most time to be
startin’.” He peered at it uncertainly.
“Yes, we must go.” She rose and brought her hat, a fragile thing of lace
and mist, and a little lace mantle with long floating ends. She put them
on before the mirror that hung above the table where the copying lay,
giving little turns and touches of feminine pleasure.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her good-humoredly.
She turned to him, her face glowing, starlike, out of the lace and mist.
“You’re laughing at me,” she said, reproachfully.
“No, I wa’n’t laughing, so to speak,” returned Uncle William. “I was
thinkin’ what a sight o’ comfort there is in a bunnit. If men folks wore
’em I reckon they’d take life easier.” He placed his hat firmly on the
gray tufts. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things--about ’em.” They were
going down the long flight of stairs and he had placed his hand
protectingly beneath her arm. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things--how
different they be, men and women. I’ve thought about it a good many
times, how it must ’a’ tickled the Lord a good deal when he found how
different they turned out--made o’ the same kind o’ stuff, so.”
“Don’t you suppose he meant it?” She was smiling under the frilling
lace.
“Well, like enough,” returned Uncle William, thoughtfully. “It’s like
the rest o’ the world--kind o’ comical and big. Like enough he did plan
it that way.”