The artist had sunk back, indifferent.
“Why!” The paper rustled in Uncle William’s hand. He looked up. “She’s gone!” he said.
The artist started up, glaring at him.
Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. “Like as not we sha’n’t see her again, ever.”
The artist’s hand groped. “What is it?” he whispered.
“She’s gone—left in the night.”
“She will come back.” The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face
Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little.