Uncle William peered at it uncertainly.  He rose and took down the spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose.  Then he reached out his great hand for the locket.  The quizzical humor had gone from his face.  It was full of gentleness.

Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.

The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face.  The old man studied it thoughtfully.  On the stove the kettle had begun to hum.  Its gentle sighing filled the room.  The artist dreamed.

Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied look.  “You’ve had a good deal more sense’n I was afraid you’d have,” he said dryly.

The artist woke.  “You can’t tell—­from that.”  He held out his hand.

Uncle William gave it up, slowly.  “I can tell more’n you’d think, perhaps.  Wimmen and the sea are alike—­some ways a good deal alike.  I’ve lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I’ve watched all kinds of doings.  But what I’m surest of is that it’s deeper’n we be.”  He chuckled softly.  “Now, I wouldn’t pertend to know all about her,”—­he waved his hand,—­“but she’s big and she’s fresh—­salt, too—­and she makes your heart big just to look at her—­the way it ought to, I reckon.  There’s things about her I don’t know,” he nodded toward the picture.  “She may not go to church and I don’t doubt but what she has tantrums, but she’s better’n we be, and she—­What did you say her name was?”

“Sergia Lvova.”

“Sergia Lvova,” repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease.  “That’s a cur’us name.  I’ve heard suthin’ like it, somewhere—­”

“She’s Russian.”

“Russian—­jest so!  I might’n’ known it!  I touched Russia once, ran up to St. Petersburg.  Now there’s a country that don’t hev breathin’ space.  She don’t hev half the sea room she’d o’t to.  Look at her—­all hemmed in and froze up.  You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to get to her—­half choked afore you fairly get there.  Yes, I sailed there once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland, just edging along—­” He held out his hand again for the locket, and studied it carefully.  “Russian, is she?  I might ‘a’ known it,” he said nodding.  “She’s the sort—­same look—­eager and kind o’ waitin’.”  He looked up.  “How’d you come to know her?  You been there?”

“In Russia?  No.  She’s not there now.  She’s in New York.  She lives there.”

“Is that so?  Poor thing!” Uncle William looked at the pictured face with compassion.

The artist smiled.  “Oh, it’s not so bad.  She’s happy.”

“Yes, she’s happy.  I can see that easy enough.  She’s the kind that’s goin’ to be happy.”  He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes.  “You couldn’t put her anywheres she wouldn’t sing—­”

“She does sing.  How did you know?”

Uncle William’s eyes twinkled to the boyish face.  “Well, I didn’t know it—­not jest that way.  I didn’t know as she sung songs on a platform, dressed up, like I’ve heard ’em.  What I meant was, her heart kind o’ bubbles and sings—­”