The girl looked up from her copying. Uncle William stood in the doorway, beaming on her. She got up quickly. “You are early.”

Uncle William held out a hand detainingly. “You set right down and go to work. I come early a-purpose. I thought I’d like to set a spell and watch ye.”

The girl resumed her copying. The lamp beside her shed its dull glow on the page, and on her face and neck, as she bent to it. The dark room rose mysteriously behind her. Uncle William settled himself in his chair with a breath of relief.

When she had finished the copying she came across to him. “It is done now.” She smiled to him through the dim light.

“Keeps you workin’ pretty steady, don’t it?” said Uncle William.

“Yes.” There was no complaint in the word.

Uncle William nodded. “I reckoned I’d find you doin’ it. That’s why I come early. I kind o’ wanted a chance to set—where ’t was quiet and things wa’n’t worryin’.”

She leaned forward. “Is he worse?”

“Well, not worse, so to speak, but kind o’ triflin’—wanting his own way a good deal. If I was home, I wouldn’t mind it a mite. I’d go outdoor and take two-three good whiffs, look at the water and see how things was comin’ on. I’d be all right in no time. But here—” He drew a kind of caged breath. “It’s worse outdoor ’n ’t is in.”

“You mind the noise, don’t you?” She was looking at him sympathetically.

“Well, ’t ain’t the noise so much,—I’ve heard the ocean roar,—it’s folks. Pesters me havin’ ’em round—so many on ’em.”

Her look changed to a little wonder. “I should think you would like to be with them. You help them.” She spoke the words softly, almost shyly. The clear glow of her eyes rested on his face.

The face showed no pride. “Yes, I reckon I help ’em—some. There’s gen’ally suthin’ to do, if you’re where folks be; but I have to get away from ’em. Can’t breathe if I don’t. And there ain’t any place to go to. I was feelin’ a good deal cooped up to-night, and then I thought o’ your place here.” He moved his hand toward the dark recesses. “It’s kind o’ clean and high.”

They sat in silence, the girl’s head resting on her hand.

Uncle William watched her face in the half-light. “You’re gettin’ tired and kind o’ peaked.”

She looked up. “I am resting.”

“Yes—yes, I know how it is. You stan’ all you can and byme-by you come to a place you can rest in, and you jest rest—hard.”

“Yes.”

“You ought to ’a’ asked somebody to help ye,” said Uncle William, gently.

“There wasn’t any one.”

“There was me.”

“Yes. I did ask you when I couldn’t go on.”

“That wa’n’t the way. Somebody would ’a’ helped—your folks, like enough—” He stopped, remembering.

“They are dead.”

He nodded. “I know. He told me. But I’d forgot—for a minute. They been dead long?”

“Two years. It was before I came away—at home, in Russia. We were all coming—father and mother and I, and my brother. Then they died; but I wanted to be free.” She had flung out her arms with a light movement.

“It’s a dretful good place to get away from,” said Uncle William. “Nice folks come from there, too. I never saw one that wa’n’t glad to come,” he added.

She smiled. “I was glad; and I am glad I came here. It has been hard—a little—but I found Alan.” Her voice sang.

“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.

Uncle William’s eyes followed her good-humoredly.

She turned to him, her face glowing, starlike, out of the lace and mist. “You’re laughing at me,” she said, reproachfully.

“No, I wa’n’t laughing, so to speak,” returned Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ what a sight o’ comfort there is in a bunnit. If men folks wore ’em I reckon they’d take life easier.” He placed his hat firmly on the gray tufts. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things—about ’em.” They were going down the long flight of stairs and he had placed his hand protectingly beneath her arm. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things—how different they be, men and women. I’ve thought about it a good many times, how it must ’a’ tickled the Lord a good deal when he found how different they turned out—made o’ the same kind o’ stuff, so.”

“Don’t you suppose he meant it?” She was smiling under the frilling lace.

“Well, like enough,” returned Uncle William, thoughtfully. “It’s like the rest o’ the world—kind o’ comical and big. Like enough he did plan it that way.”