Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag¹ rocks in his big fingers. A touch of spring was in the air, but the Andrew Halloran rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her. Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously² at the letter in his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman’s handwriting.
 
He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious fingers. A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the floor. Uncle William bent³ over and picked it up. He looked at it a little bashfully and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously⁴. As he read, an anxious line came between his eyes. “Now, that’s too bad—sick in bed—I want to know—Well, well! Pshaw, you needn’t ’a’ done that! Of course I’ll go.” He picked up the bluish slip and looked at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat surveying the red room. He shook his head slowly. “He must be putty sick to feel like that,” he said.
 
He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly.
 
“MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the artist who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you that he is very ill. He has not been well for two months or more, and for the last three weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in his rooms alone and there is no one to look after him. His friends have tried all along to have him go to a hospital, or to let them take care of him. But until two or three weeks ago he would have times of partial recovery—days when he seemed perfectly⁵ well. So no one has guessed how really ill he is, and they suppose now that he has gone away from the city to recuperate⁶. No one, except me, knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked and no one answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort. He has told me about you—how good you were to him last summer—”
 
Uncle William looked up, perplexed⁷. “Sho, now! What does she mean by that? I didn’t do nuthin’—nuthin’ to speak of.”
 
“I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He has talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his illness, earlier, when the fever was on, he would call for you—talking and muttering in his sleep. If you could come down for a little while, I feel almost sure that it would give him the start he needs. The fever makes him distrustful of every one, but I know that he would see you. I am inclosing a check for the trip. It is really money that belongs to him—to Alan. He gave me last year a beautiful present—something far too expensive for him to give; and now that he needs the money—needs to see you—more than I need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging that you will come very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you about me. You will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that I shall see you and know you when you come.
 
“Sincerely yours,
 
“SERGIA LVOVA.”
 
Uncle William nodded at the letter with a genial⁸ smile, as if he saw the girl herself and responded to the wish. He returned the letter with the blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn’t take their money, nohow,” he said slowly. “I must go and see Andy. He’ll help out. He’ll be reel glad to.”
 
He rose and began to set the table, bringing out the smoked herring and bread and tea and foxberries with lavish⁹ hand. He sat down with a look of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her bits of the herring with impartial¹⁰ hand. When the meal was over, he went to the chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in behind for the money. He counted it slowly. “Not near enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew there wa’n’t. I must go and see Andy.”
 
He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of hair and tied his neckerchief anew.
 
He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in silence, watching the scramble¹¹ for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, making a dash for a big cochin-china. “She eats a lot more ’an her share,” he grumbled¹², shaking out the dish. “Comin’ in?”
 
“I’ve got a little suthin’ to talk over with ye,” said William.
 
“Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew.
 
Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, William drew out the envelope. “I’ve got a letter—”
 
Andy eyed it. “From that painter chap?”
 
“Well, not exactly. But it’s about him. He’s in a good deal of trouble—”
 
“What’s he been doin’?” demanded Andy.
 
“He’s been bein’ sick,” said William, reproachfully.
 
“Oh!” Andy’s face fell.
 
“He’s sick now,” went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its envelope. “He’s feeling putty bad.”
 
“What’s the matter of him?” said Andy, gruffly.
 
Uncle William studied the letter.
 
“It’s a kind o’ fever—I guess—intermittent. Runs for a while, then lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once—don’t you remember?—the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar? ’Member how sick we felt?” Uncle William looked at him mildly.
 
Andy’s eye was fixed¹³ on the bay. “How d’ you know it’s the same?” he said.
 
“Well, I don’t know it’s the same—not just the same, but she says—”
 
“Who says?” Andy whirled about.
 
“Why, she says—Sergia says.—Didn’t I jest tell you, Andy?”
 
“You didn’t tell me nuthin’,” said Andy. He had returned to the bay.
 
“She is his—she is goin’ to marry him,” said William.
 
“Huh!”
 
There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel¹⁴. “When they goin’ to be married?” he said at last.
 
Uncle William shook his head. “That’s jest it, Andy. They’re in a heap o’ trouble.”
 
Andy stirred uneasily. “What’d she write to you for?”
 
“I’m comin’ to that—if you’ll give me time. She thought mebbe I could help—”
 
Andy moved a little away. “You hain’t got the means,” he said decisively.
 
“No”—the tone was soothing—“but I can get it, mebbe. She wants me to come down.”
 
“To New York? You!” Andy looked at him.
 
William returned the look apologetically. “Does sound ridiculous, don’t it, Andy? I shouldn’t ever ’a’ thought of the thing myself, but she says he kind o’ needs me. Keeps askin’ for me when the fever is on, and don’t seem to get along much when it lets up. She kind o’ thinks if I was there, it would help him to brace¹⁵ up, somehow, a little.”
 
Andy made no response. The green light was dawning far down in his eye.
 
Uncle William watched it. “It’s jest a sick man’s fancy, like enough.”
 
“When you goin’?” said Andy.
 
“I though ’bout day after to-morrow.”
 
“It’ll cost a heap.”
 
“I know it.”
 
“You’ve got it, I s’............