“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.
Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate justice. “If I was you—”
A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door.
“What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching out a hand. “What is it? Give it to me.”
Uncle William examined the lines slowly. “Why, it seems to be for me,” he said kindly. “I dunno anybody that’d be writin’ to me.”
He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice and shaking his head.