will express itself in outward semblance, and at length we gave it up. Uncle wore a pair of trousers which, at first sight, did not appear to be his, and a negligee shirt, wide open at the throat, like a poet’s. A bright red handkerchief, carelessly knotted, took the place of a tie, and his coat was his velvet one, to which he had been strongly attached for many years. Small hoops of gold, similar to those worn by Venetian noblemen, hung from the pendant lobes of his musical ears.

Seeing me, he eyed me for a moment in great astonishment. “Hella da dev!” he exclaimed. “What for you coma da here?”

I can never hope to describe, in English, the charm of my Uncle’s foreign accent. Long years of residence in this country had not eradicated it, and his low, melodious voice, full of unexpected harmonies, gave a lyric quality to his conversation.

“I am here,” I returned, “because this is my cabin. I might ask the same question of you,” I added, playfully.“Hella da dev!” said Uncle once more. This quaint, foreign phrase, indicating a pleasant surprise, often appeared in his speech. “My father-in-law, he giva da coop to you? It is astonish!”
“Yes,” I sighed, “it is.” Grandfather was one of those thrifty pioneers who held on to a cent until the Indian howled. Uncle sat down and wiped his forehead with the fancy, coloured handkerchief which was an heirloom in his family. This was quite in keeping with the situation, for I have often known the unexpected sight of a relative to produce cold perspiration on the skin of a sensitive, emotional person.
“Listen,” said Uncle, struggling to his feet. “I tella you. Here I come two, tree day back. Maka da gr-rand professional tour through ze back countree, where zees poor pipple, zey haf no moosic at all. It ees pitiful.”
I nodded. Such generosity was like Uncle. “Getta da cent,” he resumed, “getta da tree cent. Zees grateful pipple, what haf no moosic, zey nevaire giva da nick, no, nevaire! Wis Jocko, zen, I meet zees place, where I stay for ze little res’ away from ze unappreciatif pipple. An’ here, what you zink? Jocko haf been stole from me!” Here his voice rose to an agonised shriek: “_Jocko haf been stole!_”
His grief broke through the dam and overflowed. The sight of a strong man’s tears is always terrible, and I turned away until the first outburst subsided. Then I advanced to comfort the stricken man. “Perhaps, Uncle Antonio,” I said, kindly, “Jocko ran away of his own accord.”
“Hella da dev!” cried Uncle, clenching his hands. “What are zees pipple I haf been married to! Jocko, da monk, run away? Nevaire! Listen. Tree year now, Jocko and I maka da professional tour 

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