“It will come back. It always does.” There was anxious dread in the tone.
“It won’t this time.” Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. “I know how you feel—kind o’ scared to believe anything—anything that’s good.”
The artist smiled. “You never felt that way!”
“Jest that way,” said Uncle William. “I didn’t want to believe I wa’n’t al’ays goin’ to be sick. I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ I’d rather be sick’n not—jest as if the devil had me.”
“Yes”—the young man spoke almost eagerly—“it’s the way I’ve been! Only I didn’t know it till you said so.”
“The’ ’s a good many things we don’t know—not jest exactly know—till somebody says ’em.”
They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.
“I’ve done some queer things,” said the artist.
“Like enough.” Uncle William did not ask what they were.
“They begin to look foolish.” He turned his head a little.