“I call it lying,” snorted Uncle William.
“Yes, yes.” She patted his arm. “But can’t you understand how you would feel if you saw something beautiful—some place that made you feel the way you used to feel when you were a child? You might think for a moment that you had really been there, and say it—without meaning to tell a lie. That’s what I meant.”
Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. “You do put that mighty nice, don’t you? You ’most make me believe I could do it, and I guess mebbe I could. But Andy couldn’t,” he added, with conviction.
The girl followed her thought. “And what does it matter—if he buys the pictures.”
“Well, it matters some,” said Uncle William, slowly. “I dunno ’s I want a liar, not a real liar, ownin’ a picter o’ my house. But if he jest romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem different somehow.”
When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. “I should like to see him again,” she said, waiting.
“Like enough,” said Uncle William, gently—“like enough. But I reckon he don’t need you just now.” He held her hand, looking down at her kindly.
“I could see him,” she suggested.
“How’s that?”
“I could come down to the boat. I would be careful not to let him see me.”