“Some folks would say that was the wust of it,” said Uncle William. “You found him and he fell sick, and you had him to take care on—cross as two sticks some of the time.” He regarded her mildly.
“You don’t think so,” she said.
“Well, mebbe not, mebbe not,” responded Uncle William. “I’m sort o’ queer, perhaps.”
She had turned to him half wistfully. “Don’t you think I might see him—just a little while?”
Uncle William shook his head. “You’ve been too good to him. That’s the wust of wimmen folks. What he needs now is a tonic—suthin’ kind o’ bitter.” He chuckled. “He’s got me.”
She smiled. “When are you going to take him away?”
“To-morrow.”
She started. “It is very soon,” she said softly.
“Sooner the better,” said Uncle William. “It’ll do us both good to smell the sea.” He pulled out the great watch. “Must be ’most time to be startin’.” He peered at it uncertainly.
“Yes, we must go.” She rose and brought her hat, a fragile thing of lace and mist, and a little lace mantle with long floating ends. She put them on before the mirror that hung above the table where the copying lay, giving little turns and touches of feminine pleasure.