The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.
Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “I guess I’d lie down.” He put his hands on the young man’s shoulders, pushing him back gently.
The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. “Who—are—you?” he said. The words were a whisper.
Uncle Williams’ smile deepened. “I guess ye know me all right, don’t ye?”
The artist continued to stare at him. “You came through the door. It was locked.”
“Shucks, no!” said Uncle William. “‘T wa’n’t locked any more’n I be. You jest forgot it.”
“Did I?” The tense look broke. “I thought you had come again.”
“Well, I hev.”
“I don’t mean that way. Sit down.” He looked feebly for a chair.
Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward a little. One big hand rested on the young man’s wrist. “Now, tell me all about it,” he said quietly.