ung 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.

"If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner," went on the old
man. "I didn't see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all for
a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that
time she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I hadn't
the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner,
bein' happy. You learn jest about the same bein' happy as you do bein'
miserable--only you learn it quicker."

"I can't give up my art," said the young man. He was looking at Uncle
William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind. "You
don't allow for art," he said.

"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon."
He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.

The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists
have said," he commente