“Yes”—­the artist leaned forward—­“that is Sergia.  It’s the way she is.  She doesn’t sing in public.  But her voice”—­his eyes grew dark—­“it makes you want to laugh and cry.  It’s like the wind and the sun shining—­” He broke off, listening.

The old man’s eyes dwelt on him kindly.  “She’s with her folks, is she?”

He roused himself.  “She hasn’t any.  They all died over there—­her father and brother in the riots, her mother after that.  She has no one.  She teaches music—­piano and violin—­night and day.  Sometimes she gives a recital with her pupils—­and she has me.”  He laughed a little bitterly.  “It isn’t an exciting life.”

“I dunno’s I’d say jest that,” said Uncle William, slowly.  “It ain’t exactly the things that happen—­” He broke off, looking at something far away.  “Why, I’ve had things happen to me—­shipwreck, you know—­winds a-blowin’ and sousin’ the deck—­and a-gettin’ out the boats and yellin’ and shoutin’—­Seems ’s if it ought to ‘a’ been excitin’.  But Lord! ‘twa’n’t nuthin’ to what I’ve felt other times—­times when it was all still-like on the island here—­and big—­so’s ‘t you kind o’ hear suthin’ comin’ to ye over the water.  Why, some days it’s been so’s I’d feel’s if I’d bust if I didn’t do suthin’—­suthin’ to let off steam.”

The young man nodded.  “You ought to be an artist.  That’s the way they feel—­some of them.”

Uncle William beamed on him.  “You don’t say so!  Must be kind o’ hard work, settin’ still and doin’ art when you feel like that.  I gen’ally go clammin’, or suthin’.”

The artist laughed out, boyishly.  He reached out a hand for the locket.

But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it.  “Things happen to her—­every day,” he said.  “You can see that, plain enough.  She don’t hev to be most drowned to hev feelin’s.”  He looked up.  “When you goin’ to be married?”

“Not till we can afford it—­years.”  The tone was somber.

Uncle William shook his head.  “Now, I wouldn’t talk like that, Mr. Woodworth!” He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles again, beaming beneath them.  “Seems to me,” he said slowly, studying the fire—­“seems to me I wouldn’t wait.  I’d be married right off—­soon’s I got back.”

“What would you live on?” said the artist.

Uncle William waited.  “There’s resk,” he said at last—­“there’s resk in it.  But there’s resk in ’most everything that tastes good.  I meant to get married once,” he said after a pause.  “I didn’t.  I guess it’s about the wust mistake I ever made.  I thought this house wa’n’t good enough for her.”  He looked about the quaint room. “’T wa’n’t, neither,” he added with conviction.  “But she’d ‘a’ rather come—­I didn’t know it then,” he said gently.

The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.