When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look.
 
Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. “Feelin’ better?” he said.
 
“Yes.”
 
He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his shirt-sleeves. His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. “I’ve got a chowder going’,” he said. “You take another pill and then you’ll be about ready to eat some of it, when it’s done.”
 
“Can I eat chowder?” The tone was dubious¹, but meek².
 
“You’ve got all your teeth, hain’t you?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Well, then, I guess you can eat it.”
 
“I haven’t been eating much.”
 
“I shouldn’t think you had.” Uncle William spoke³ dryly. “You needn’t be a mite⁴ afraid o’ one o’ my chowders. A baby could eat ’em, if it had got its teeth.”
 
The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle William refused him sternly. “You jest wait awhile,” he said, bearing away the empty plate. “There ain’t more’n enough for a comfortable dish for me. You don’t want to eat it all, do you?”
 
“No,” said the artist, flushing.
 
“I thought not.” It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion, and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic⁵ motion of the great jaw⁶ as it went slowly back and forth⁷.
 
When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed as the artist stirred. “You’ve had a good long sleep.” He laid a hand on the moist forehead. “That’s good. Fever’s gone.”
 
“It will come back. It always does.” There was anxious dread⁸ in the tone.
 
“It won’t this time.” Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. “I know how you feel—kind o’ scared to believe anything—anything that’s good.”
 
The artist smiled. “You never felt that way!”
 
“Jest that way,” said Uncle William. “I didn’t want to believe I wa’n’t al’ays goin’ to be sick. I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ I’d rather be sick’n not—jest as if the devil had me.”
 
“Yes”—the young man spoke almost eagerly—“it’s the way I’ve been! Only I didn’t know it till you said so.”
 
“The’ ’s a good many things we don’t know—not jest exactly know—till somebody says ’em.”
 
They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.
 
“I’ve done some queer things,” said the artist.
 
“Like enough.” Uncle William did not ask what they were.
 
“They begin to look foolish.” He turned his head a little.
 
“Do you good—best thing in the world.”
 
“I don’t see how I could.” The tone was uneasy. “I must have been beastly to her.”
 
Uncle William said nothing.
 
“She didn’t tell you?” The artist was looking at him.
&n............