HAPPY ISLAND

THE sunlight got in Uncle William’s eyes. He looked up from the map spread on the table before him. Then he got up slowly and crossed to the window and drew down the turkey-red curtain—a deep glow filled the room. Juno, on the lounge, stirred a little and stretched her daws, and drew them in and tucked her head behind them and went on sleeping.

Uncle William returned to his map. His big finger found a dotted line and followed it slowly up the table with little mumbles of words.... The room was very still—only the faintest whisper of a breeze came across the harbor—and Uncle William’s head bent over the map and traveled with his finger.... “They ’d run in here, like enough, and...”

A shadow crossed the curtain and he looked up.

Andy was in the doorway, grinning—a bunch of lobsters dangling from his hand, stretching frantic green legs into space. Andy looked down at them.

Uncle William shook his head. “You ’ll get into trouble, Andy, carryin’ ’em that way, right in broad daylight—you can put ’em out there under the bucket—so ’s ’t the sun won’t hit ’em.”

Andy departed and the scraping of the bucket on the hard rock came cautiously in the window.... Juno lifted her ear and flicked it and went on dreaming. Uncle William returned to the map.

“What you huntin’ up?” asked Andy. He was looking in the window.

“‘D you put a stone on top the bucket?”

“Yep—What you lookin’ for?” asked Andy.

“I was just seein’ where they ’d got to..... They must be up along Battle Harbor way, by this time—”

“You heard from ’em?” said Andy. He came in and sat down.

“We’ve had a letter to-day—me and Benjy—”

“Where’s he gone?” asked Andy.

“He’s up to his place—seein’ about some plans they’re makin’—they bother him quite a consid’abul.”

Andy’s face showed no concern. “They goin’ to begin working next week?” he said.

Uncle William pushed back the map a little and took off his spectacles.... “They don’t just seem to know,” he said slowly, “Benjy wants it one way, and the man that’s doin’ it—Ordway—he says it can’t be done—so they’re kind o’ stuck. I wish he ’d have George Manning.” Uncle William’s face expanded. “George ’d do it—and do it for him good. You see, Benjy, he wants—”

“He ’ll want money,” said Andy shortly—“unless he looks out—keeping that contractor and fussing about whether they ’ll have the roof two inches up or two inches down—or some such matter as that—and Harr’et feedin’ the contractor and getting board money right along whether he works or don’t work.”

“I guess I’ll do the lobsters for supper,” said Uncle William. “Benjy likes ’em.” He stirred about, gathering a few bits of kindling and paper and striking a careful match.

Andy watched him with gloomy eye while he dived under the sink and brought out a large kettle.

Uncle William lifted the tea kettle a little and drew it forward. “Most full,” he said contentedly. “That’s good—and it ain’t fairly cooled off since dinner—I didn’t wash any dishes this noon, you see.”

Andy’s eye roamed about the room.

“They’re tucked under the sink,” said Uncle William, “I don’t like ’em clutterin’ round. I can’t seem to set so easy if I see ’em.” He opened the sink door and peered in. “I guess there’s about enough left for a meal—You goin’ to stay—?” He looked back hopefully over his shoulder.

Andy wriggled a little and looked at the door. “I didn’t say nothin’ to Harr’et,” he said feebly.

“Well, I guess you better stay—” said Uncle William, “You don’t get a chance to eat lobsters every day.”

“I don’t get ’em any day,” said Andy gloomily, “She won’t cook ’em for me—and she says she won’t have ’em scrawling round.”

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Now, that’s too bad—it’s just come on, ain’t it?”

Andy nodded. “She says it’s the law and she’s going to keep it, and we hain’t had tip nor claw for much as a week now.”

“My... my!” Uncle William’s tongue clicked in sympathy. “Well, you stay right where you be, Andy, and we ’ll have one good meal.” He brought in the lobsters. “Seem’s if women keep the law a little harder ’n men—when they do keep it,” he said thoughtfully, swashing the lobsters happily down into the kettle.

Andy nodded. “She got scared ’bout the fish-warden last week. She says we can’t pay no three hundred dollars for lobsters—and I do’ ’no’s we can.” His eye was on the steam that rose genially about the lid of the kettle.

“Well, there won’t be any three hundred this time,” said Uncle William, “—not without the fish-warden’s legs are longer ’n my spy-glass. Seems kind o’ mean business—being a warden,” he added kindly.

“I don’t mind his bein’ a warden,” said Andy, “if they ’d let us have Jim Doshy. We ’d got used to him—knew his ways, and he gen ’lly sent us, word anyhow—day or two beforehand—But this one—” He looked at Uncle William with reproachful eye. “The’ wa ’n’t one of us ready for him when he come.”

Uncle William nodded. “I know—lively work wa ’n’t it?”

Andy grinned. “Lively—they was flyin’ round like hens with their heads off—dumpin’ ’em out and scratchin’ ’em under and getting things shipshape.” He grinned again. “I wa ’n’t to home, you know—I’d gone off the Point—to haul a mess for dinner, and Harr’et had to run a mile in the hot sun to yell at me to dump ’em out.” He drew a long breath as he heaved the lobsters overboard and righted himself.

“Now, that ain’t right,” said Uncle William, “making Harr’et run in the hot sun like that—all for them little squirming things,—and ’tain’t reasonable. We ought to know how many lobsters we o’t to eat—much as any fish-warden. Ain’t they our lobsters?” He shoved up his glasses and looked at Andy kindly.

Andy’s eye was on the kettle. “You think they’re most done?” he said.

Uncle William took off the lid and peered in. The steam rose about his big head like a halo and rolled away in light whiffs. Down on the beach they could hear the washing of the little waves as the tide came up. Uncle William’s face looked out of the steam, like a happy moon. “Just about—” he said, “You run and see if Benjy’s anywheres in sight.” He lifted the kettle and Andy got up stiffly and went to the door.

“I don’t see him nowheres,” he said indifferently.

“You can’t see him there, Andy. You got to go round the corner.” Uncle William carried the kettle to the sink and Andy departed, reluctant—When he returned the lobsters were on the middle of the table, red and steaming, with their little white clouds over them. The map had been hung on the wall and the table was scantily set—“There’s one spoon apiece,” said Uncle William cheerfully, “—though I do’ ’no’s we need spoons. I’m going to have a real good washin’ up after dinner—’D you see him, Andy?”

“He’s comin’,” replied Andy—“up the road a piece.”

“He ’ll be right along then,” said Uncle William, “—if he don’t meet somebody—that wants to advise him ’bout his house. I’d come home round by the lots, if I was him, I tell him. It’s further—but he ’d get here quicker. You sure ’t was him?”

“The’ ain’t anybody else got that kind o’ high-stepping walk, has the’.” said Andy scornfully.

“I do’ ’no ’s the’ has,” said Uncle William. “You draw right up, Andy. He ’ll be here any minute now.”

II

BENJAMIN BODET stood in the doorway and looked in. He was tall and thin and distinguished—in spite of his rough suit and slouch hat and the week’s growth of beard on his thin cheeks and pointed chin. His eye fell on the steaming red mound in the center of the table and his face lighted. “Lobsters!” he said.

Uncle William, who had been watching him, chuckled a little. “Andy’s lobsters,” he said politely.

Andy shuffled in his chair. “They’re your claws, William—they’re on your premises—”

“Yes, yes,” said Uncle William soothingly, “I know ’bout that. You just eat all you want and I’ll pay the bill—when it comes in. You all ready, Benjy?”

“All ready—and hungry for anything you’ve got—especially lobster.”

They drew up to the table and reached out to the red pile—breaking it down slowly.... Juno, from her lounge, came across and rubbed against Uncle William’s big leg. Then she sat up. When Uncle William’s hand reached down with casual motion, and a hard, red morsel, she snuffed at it daintily before her teeth opened on it. Then she bent her head and growled a little, and crouched over it, crushing it under her paw and moving her tail in swift, restrained joy... to eat was good—but to hold it—there under her paw—caught fast—and growl a little.... Up above Uncle William rumbled on—about the weather and fishing and house building and lobsters.... Presently he reached up and took down a spy-glass and went to the window. The red curtain was up and the sun came in with soft, side slants. Down below, the water of the harbor slowly filled with dusk and reached away. Uncle William looked out across it toward the west.

“I’ve been kind o’ watching her,” he said, “for some time—I guess she’s goin’ by.”

Benjamin Bodet came and stood beside him, looking out.

Uncle William glanced at him affectionately as he handed him the glass. He was not quite used—even yet—to having Benjy around. Sometimes he waked in the night and remembered Benjy was there—before he heard the sound of the waves on the beach or the wind coming across the moor behind the house.... This sometimes gave him a feeling that perhaps it might be heaven instead of Arichat... and it kept him from getting used to Benjy’s presence in the house.

Andy, from his seat at the table, looked at them with grudging eye. “You see anything?” he said.

“She’s running by,” said Uncle William. He came and sat down and looked contentedly at the untidy table. “That was a pretty good meal, Andy.”

Andy nodded, without enthusiasm. “The last one I’ll have this season—like as not,” he said.

“Oh, you bring ’em up here any time and we ’ll help you out, Benjy and me.” The tall man had come back from the window and he smiled down at them. “I’ll do my share,” he said.

Uncle William looked at him, as if fearing a little that he might vanish in his thinness. “You set down, Benjy,” he said, “I’m going to clear the table and then we ’ll get down the map—”

“Have you heard—?” asked the man quickly.

“It come today—while you was gone, and it’s to both of us,” said Uncle William.

He held the pan of red shells in his hand, looking at it doubtfully. Juno, with her back to the stove, licked her paw and rubbed it down her nose and rubbed again—and licked it and rubbed again—in gentle rhythm.

Uncle William glanced at her with benignant eye. “She does set store by lobster,” he said, “much as anybody I ever see. I guess I’ll save ’em for her.” He moved toward the sink.

Andy’s eye followed him with disapproving glance. “I’d heave ’em out,” he said.

“Don’t you worry, Andy, I’m goin’ to put ’em under the sink—way back. The’ won’t no fish-warden get ’em in there. It’s much’s I can do to find things myself—when they get under here—” He emerged from the depths with serene face. “I see some things in there now, I’ve been looking for quite a spell. Tomorrow I’m going to have a real good clarin’-up time—You see!”

“I wanted you to go up to my place tomorrow,” said Bodet whimsically. “I thought perhaps you could work that contractor around to let me have my house the way I want it.”

“Well, I’ll go if you want me to,” said Uncle William placidly, “The dishes can wait a spell—some of ’em can wait,” he added, with a touch of conscience.

Benjamin smiled. “You might do them before we go.”

“And you could wipe,” said Uncle William cheerfully.

Benjamin’s face was perhaps a trifle less glowing than Uncle William’s, but his assent was cheerful. “All right, William, I’ll do my part—You help me with that contractor and I’ll wipe dishes for you—all day, if you say so.”

Uncle William regarded him thoughtfully. “You ought to have George Manning to help you about your house, Benjy. He could do it for you—nice.”

“Manning?” Bodet looked at him with lifted eyebrows—“You mean that boy—?”

“He ain’t a boy exactly, Benjy. He looks kind o’ young—not having any whiskers, and chewing a piece of grass the way he does when he’s thinking. But he’s old enough. He’s built a good many houses on the Island, fust and last—much as eighteen or twenty, I should think, counting barns—and hen-coops and fish-houses.”

Bodet smiled. “My house isn’t a hencoop, William.”

“I know, Benjy—it’s going to be a nice house—when you get it started,” said William.

Bodet sighed and threw out an impatient hand.

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Does bother ye a good deal, don’t it?—You might talk with George about it,” he added hopefully, “‘Twon’t hurt any to talk to him—he’s chuck full of ideas. He’s about the best man we’ve got on the Island, I guess,” he added slowly. “The’ ain’t but one thing wrong about George.”

“What’s wrong with him!” asked Bodet with a little, skeptical smile.

“He ain’t married,” said Uncle William.

Bodet laughed out. “Neither are you, William.”

“No, I ain’t married and you ain’t married. But that’s different—we’re old men.”

“Just tottering around,” laughed Bodet.

“It ain’t the tottering, Benjy—It’s the hevin’ had your chance—and lost it.... That’s what’s happened to us.” He was looking at him with affectionate eyes, over the big spectacles.

Bodet nodded. “That’s what’s happened to us. And George Manning, I suppose—”

“George never had a chance,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.... “I don’t mean that nobody would ’a’ had him. I guess the’ ain’t a girl on the Island but what’s set her cap for George, one time or another—set it kind o’ modest, you know. But George don’t see ’em. He just goes around looking at the sky and things—kind o’ thinkin’ in his mind—might bump right up against a girl and not know she was there—” Uncle William chuckled. “I’ve talked to him about ’em,” he added conscientiously—“I’ve told him, a good many times, how interestin’ they be—but it don’t seem to do any good.” Uncle William sighed a little.

Bodet stood up, shaking himself. “Did you say there was a letter—?” he suggested.

Uncle William blinked a little and took it from his pocket, regarding it fondly. “You read it,” he said, “whilst I get down the map.”

Andy watched him, a little morosely, as he mounted a chair and reached for the map on its nail—“When you two going to get a girl!” he said.

Uncle William looked down at him with open mouth. “Now that’s an idea!” he said slowly.

“What’s an idea?” asked Andy.

Uncle William’s mouth closed firmly. “Nothin’—I didn’t mean nothin’, I guess. I was just a-thinking.” He chuckled softly. “We’ve got a girl,” he added kindly. “We heard from her yesterday.” He reached again to the map.

“When’s she coming?” demanded Andy.

“Well—?” Uncle William climbed slowly from the chair with his map, “She can’t come—exactly—”

Andy stared at him. “Then you ain’t got her, Willum—”

“Oh, yes, we’ve got her—and she wants to come—worst way. She’s the one I told you about—down to New York?” He looked at Andy over his spec-tades. “She’s a nice girl,” he added. His face held a deep glow. “‘Bout the nicest girl you ever see, I reckon.”

“I don’t know her,” said Andy coldly. “Well, mebbe you forget—But I remember well enough telling you about her one day—down to your house—when Harr’et had gone fox-berrying—and you and me was there alone, and we was makin’—”

“Like enough I do remember,” said Andy hastily.

“That’s the one,” said Uncle William, “the one I kind o’ helped to get home from New York—and she ’d come—any day—if there was a place to sleep. Benjy’s in the other room and I’m in this one—and the’ ain’t any other—” His forehead wrinkled at the problem. “She’s got to come—and she’s got to hev a place,” he said with decision.

“She could sleep down to my house,” said Andy.

“Why, so she could—She could sleep down to his house, Benjy,” said Uncle William.

The tall man swung his glasses from his nose and looked at them—first one and then the other. Then a smile came into his face. “The Lord bless you, Andy,” he said, “I think I had come about to the end of my dish-washing powers—”

“All you’ve done, was wipe ’em, Benjy,” said Uncle William anxiously.

“I know, William—and it’s all right—and I liked it!”

“You ’d pay a little suthin’,” suggested Andy.

“Oh, anything reasonable,” responded the tall man. “Now let’s see the map.”

III

THEY bent over the table, following Uncle William’s finger. The room was filled with light smoke from Uncle William’s pipe and the cigarette that Bodet held in his fingers and whiffed from time to time. The dusk outside crept in and mingled with the smoke.

“It’s along up here somewheres....” said Uncle William, peering at the map—“Here—! Here it is!” He glued his finger to a tiny spot—“They stopped here, they said—off St. Pierre, and then run along up through Placentia Bay and stopped off two-three times, and back to St. Mary’s—kind o’ edgin’ along—They struck a squall here—off Lance Point—and that kep’ ’em back a spell—”

“The boat’s all right!” said Bodet quickly.

“Oh, she’s all right, I guess. They didn’t say nothin’ about the boat. They was writin’ about the scenery and about their feelings, and so on; but I managed to make out their course—puttin’ this and that together. Your boat’s all right, Benjy. She ’ll stand any weather they ’ll get this time o’ year.”

“Yes—she ’ll stand it—with good handling—”

“Well, you’ve got a captain knows his business.... They ’ll bring her ’round to your back door some day, safe and sound.... You ain’t worryin’ to have ’em back, Benjy?”

The other shook his head. “Not a bit—I’m contented here.” He gave a little puff to the cigarette and wrinkled his eyes, smiling across the map and dreaming a little.

Uncle William’s eyes were on his face, kindly and glad. The pipe in his lips gave out a gentle volume of smoke and rumbled a little down below—“You can’t find a much better place ’n this is, can you?” He moved his hand toward the window where the dusk was coming in... and across the harbor where the lights glowed faintly—like stars.

Benjy’s eye rested on them. “Best place in the world,” he said.

“We all like it,” said Uncle William, “Andy likes it, too—”

The green in Andy’s eye retreated a little—“I’d like to see some of them other places,” he said.... “Now, that,” he shoved his finger at a point on the map—“That’s the farthest north I ever went.” Uncle William bent to it.... “Dead Man’s Point.” He chuckled a little. “‘Tis kind o’ rough, Andy, ain’t it!”

“I’ve started times enough,” said Andy—“once for Labrador and once in a whaler ’twas going way up—they said. Seem’s if we always got stuck or got a cargo—or suthin’—before we’re fairly under way—and had to turn around and come back.”

Uncle William nodded. “You’ve had a hard time, Andy—and I do’ ’no’s I’d risk taking you along myself—not if I wanted to get anywhere.”

Andy grinned. “You’ve been,” he said. “You don’t care.”

Uncle William’s eye swept the map and he laid his great hand on it affectionately, spreading the fingers wide. “It does feel good to think you’ve seen it,” he said, “But I’d rather be right here with you and Benjy a-traveling this way—after them young things, that don’t know where they’re sailing or what kind of waters they’re comin’ to—and not trusting the Lord even—not fairly trustin’ him, so to speak—just kind o’ thinkin’ of him as suthin’ to fall back on if a storm comes up—a real hard one—kind of a tornado like.”

“She’s a good boat,” said the tall man.

“She’s all right, Benjy—and they’re nice children,” responded Uncle William, “and I hope they won’t hurry a mite about getting round the earth.... The rate they’re goin’ now—when they wrote—I reckon it ’ll take just about twenty-five years,” he said reflectively.... “They don’t say how far North they plan to make, but I kind o’ reckon they ’ll cut across from here—from Battle Harbor to Disco, and then skirt along down the Cape, and up,”... His finger followed the course with slow touch and the smoke curled about his head with deep, contemplative puffs. His eye ran back over the course and lingered on a bit of clear water to the North. “It does seem a pity not to go up there—when they’re so near,” he said regretfully, “and best kind of weather, too.”... His eye grew dreamy—“It was along ’71, I sailed there—along with Captain Hall—You know that last voyage of his? We had one eye on whales and one on the Pole, I reckon... and the Polaris, she edged and edged, up and up. Some days I didn’t know but she would strike the Pole—run smack into it.... We ’d got up here through the Strait and up Smith’s Sound... and on beyond—the farthest of anybody’t that time—and Captain Hall, he was for pushing on—and all of ’em, except Buddington—he was sailing master and that slow, cautious kind—no sort o’ timber to go after the North Pole with—but he said we ’d winter right there—’twas somewheres along in August then—and we run back a little to a good place—and that’s where it got its name now, ’Polaris Bay’—we was the ones that named it.” Uncle William looked at it, with the pride of possession, and rubbed his finger on it. “Well, we stayed there.... But Captain Hall—you couldn’t hold him still, and he was all the time sledgin’ off, one way and another—to see what the earth was doin’ up that way—and it run along into October—the last of the month—It all seems like yesterday,” said Uncle William slowly.... “I was a young fellow, you see—not more ’n twenty-two-three, and I’d left Jennie down here, and gone up there—so’s to make money faster.”—His eye traveled about the red room... and came back to the map... “and there we was, settin’ down up there—waitin’ for winter and not a whale in sight—and then, all of a sudden, before you could say Jack Robinson—Captain Hall died.... There was whisperin’s around among the crew about the way he was took and the Navy went into it later—but nothin’ was proved... and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he ’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring, they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone... and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’ nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....”

The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said.

“Yes,’.was home,” said Uncle William contentedly. “Of course, any place where you happen to be is home,—but if there’s somebody there waitin’ for ye and needin’ ye, it’s more homier than any of ’em.” Andy got slowly to his feet. “Harr’et’s waitin’ for me,” he said, “and I might’s well go—” He cast a lingering look at the table. “You boys going to sit up all night, talking and gabbling!”

“Why, no, Andy. I do ’no ’s we ’ll light up,” responded Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ of going down to look after the boats a little and then we ’ll go to bed—like enough.”

“Well, good night,” said Andy, “I’ve got to go,”

“Good night, Andy.” They sat listening to his footfalls on the rocky path below. “He’s a good boy,” said Uncle William. “He ’ll stan’ a lot—without whimpering—but he don’t know it—no more ’n that cat there.”

Juno rose and stretched her back, yawning. Then she walked indifferently to the door and passed out—as if a summons had come to her from the night out there.

IV

UNCLE WILLIAM finished the last saucepan and carried it, with careful flourish, to the stove, where the top was piled high with pots and kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and deposited it with cautious touch. Then he stood back and surveyed the topply pile with hopeful eye.

Benjamin, seated on a rock outside, was whistling softly. “You most ready, William,” he called.

Uncle William glanced hastily toward the window, then his glance traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You wait a minute whilst I chuck two-three more things out o’ sight.”

Benjamin rose and stretched his long legs. The sun shone brilliantly and the salt air was alive with the freshness of summer. He strolled to the window and looked in.... Uncle William, on his knees by the red lounge, was poking things under with swift, efficient touch.

He looked up and nodded. “Don’t you wait, Benjy. I’m most done. The’s just two-three things got strayed around—” He gathered up a plate and saucer, with the remnants of Juno’s supper, and carried them across to the sink. He opened the cupboard door underneath and thrust them in.... “The’s a few things left,” he said apologetically, “if I raked way in under for ’em, mebbe. But we’ve got enough to run along—quite a spell now.” He glanced affectionately at the stove and the rows of shining cups and plates ranged on the shelf above the sink.

Benjamin’s eye followed the glance with a touch of amusement and a little impatience, “Oh, come on, William. You ’d let things run a week and then you ’d scrub all day—”

Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s right, Benjy. That’s just the way I like it—now, how ’d you know!”

“Well, I have eyes,” said Benjamin dryly, “and I’ve been living with you a month or so, you know.”

“That’s so, Benjy—and don’t it seem good!” Uncle William came to the window and patted the thin hand resting on the sill. “I’m coming right along, now, soon’s I get my apron off—” His fingers tugged at the strings of the big oil cloth pattern that encompassed him.

Benjamin’s eye waited, impatient—“You ’ll get rid of all that fuss when the new girl comes,” he said.

Uncle William’s mouth opened and looked at him. Then it closed and Uncle William shook his head. “I’d clean forgot her,” he said slowly, “and if I don’t send her word today, she can’t come for two weeks—nor four, mebbe. The boats don’t run right.” He reached up to the clock for the pen and bottle of ink that stood there.

Benjamin moved with restless indecision and Uncle William glanced at him. “You run along, Benjy,” he said kindly, “That contractor ’ll be waiting for you—”

“He’s been waiting,” said Benjy quickly, “—an hour at least.”

“Yes, yes—I know. Don’t you wait—” Uncle William’s eye was on the paper and he was mumbling words to the ink bottle.... “I’ll be—right along—Benjy—sometime—”

The tall man turned from the window and strode over the rocks.

Uncle William’s face smoothed to its genial smile as the steps died away. His fingers traced big, comfortable words on the paper and his head nodded in a kind of cheerful, all-round assent while he wrote. The clock struck ten and he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His face radiated in little wrinkles of interest. “I do’ ’no’s I ever see Andy run like that—and cross-lots, too—Harr’et wants suthin’—bad—like enough.... My—my! He hadn’t ought to run like that!”... He bent from the window. “Hello, Andy!—what you runnin’ for?”

Andy halted, panting—“He’s come!” he said. The words sank to a whisper and he wheeled about, glaring at a man who was coming up the path from the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with keen, quick glance and a look of determination. He glanced indifferently at Andy and rapped sharply on the side of the door.

Uncle William came across with easy gait. “Good morning,” he said—looking down from his height...

“You’re the owner of this house!” said the young man.

Uncle William’s eye traversed it kindly, “I reckon it belongs to me—yet awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still higher and Uncle William’s presence exhaled dignity and welcome.

The young man stepped over the sill. Andy followed sulkily.

“Sit down, sir.” Uncle William’s hand motioned to the red lounge.

The stranger crossed and sat down, holding his hat in his hand and glancing with quick eye about the little room.

Uncle William sat down opposite him, a hand on either knee, and looked at him over large spectacles.

“I’m the new fish-warden,” said the young man—as if he answered a polite question.

“I kind o’ reckoned you might be a fish-warden, or something like that,” said Uncle William. “I’m glad to see you.”

The young man smiled a little. “You’re the first one that’s glad, I guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his face. The warm, sunny room seemed to reach out and surround him.

Juno, from her place on the lounge, leaped down and walked with deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunshine, with her back to the company, and looked steadily into space.

Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly.

“I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man.

Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said, “—close season, so.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted a little.

“I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward.

“My name is Mason,” said the young man.

“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”

The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the village.”

“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”

The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if he did not propose to be tampered with.

“I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle William comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing and lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come sailin’ into a harbor—night or day.”

The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him curiously.

“—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to do your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always reachin’ out from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort of?”

The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought about it that way,” he said.

“Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle

William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays kind o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you know—and one day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to myself—’Supposin’, instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em, pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-like, from the shore. There was a minute in that boat when I wouldn’t’ ’a’ known whether it was you or me, and it felt uncomfortable—real uncomfortable,” said Uncle William.

Andy’s face held a wide, half-scared grin.

The young man looked at Uncle William curiously. “I could imagine things like that—if I wanted to,” he said dryly.

Uncle William nodded. “I don’t doubt you could—a good deal better. But I wouldn’t if I was you.”

“I don’t intend to,” said the young man. He half rose from his seat.

“It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got a family—a wife, like enough, and children—”

The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it dropped to his side.

Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you ’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?” He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his forehead, looking at him inquiringly.

“I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced.

“Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you anyhow—before that.”

The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of firmness about the chin.

“I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.

The young man took out a small leather case and handed it to him, without speaking.

Uncle William received it in his big, careful fingers, and adjusted his glasses before he bent to it.

Andy sat silent, with grudging, watchful eye, and the young man let his glance wander about the room. Juno, seated in the sunshine, blinked a little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed the crack. She seated herself beside it, turning a reproachful, indifferent eye in Uncle William’s direction.

Andy, from across the room, glared at her.

The young man’s eye had followed her with half-cynical smile.

Uncle William looked up from the leather case and pushed up his glasses. “You’ve got a good wife, Mr. Mason.”

“I know about it,” said the young man quietly. He stood up, holding out his hand for the case. Uncle William beamed helplessly at the baby—handing it back.

The young man replaced the case in his pocket without comment, but the comers of his smile softened a little—as if in spite of judgment.

“Well, now, you want to look round a little, don’t ye?” said Uncle William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of cluttered up so—if I’d known you was comin’ I’d ’a’ had ’em fixed up.”

The young man’s face broke a little. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

Uncle William chuckled. “You’re used to havin’ ’em fixed up for you, I suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell you the best places to look.... The’s under the sink—”

Andy’s chair scraped the floor with sudden sound.

Uncle William looked at him mildly. “The’s under the sink,” he repeated firmly, “and under the lounge and under the bed and up chimbley and down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get to.... That’s another thing I never thought of, about being a fish-warden—havin’ to scooch so much.”

“Never mind that,” said the young man, and there was a little impatient flick to the words, “I’ll begin wherever you say—”

“Why, I don’t mind,” said Uncle William kindly. “If I was advising you, I should say, ’Don’t look anywheres.’.rdquo;

Juno moved over and rubbed against Uncle William’s leg. Then she returned to her seat by the cupboard and lifted her lip in a silent miaouw.

“Byme-by, Juno,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “She’s hungry, like enough,” he said, turning to the fish-warden.

But the man had stooped and was lifting the cover of the red lounge.

“It’s a dreadful clutter,” said Uncle William aside to Andy, “‘Seems’s if I hadn’t o’t to let him see it looking like that—”

“You ’d better wring her neck,” said Andy between his set teeth.

“Why, Andy!—You don’t find anything there, Mr. Mason?” said Uncle William.

The man emerged with red face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said—“But it’s my business to look—”

“Yes, it’s your business. That’s what I was sayin’ to myself when I was out sailin’—”

“I’ll take the bedroom next,” said the man shortly.

They disappeared in the next room and the murmur of their voices, with the moving of a heavy chest and the stir of papers, came out.

Andy cast a vicious eye at Juno. He half rose and took a step on tiptoe. But the bedroom door opened again and he sat down.

“I haven’t hauled a trap—nor set one—since the season closed,” said Uncle William’s voice.

“That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. But I have reason to think.... I’d better make a thorough search—since I am here,” he finished quietly.

“You search all you want to,” said Uncle William cordially—“Get away, Juno.” He pushed her aside with his foot. “This is my sink cupboard,” he opened the door hospitably. “Lucky I washed some of the dishes this morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he set them down and reached in again. He emerged with a quiet look in his face—“I shall have to trouble you to take out all the things in that cupboard,” he said with a motion of his hand.

Uncle William’s face had dropped a little. “I most knew you ’d want me to do that,” he said, “I o’ ’t to ’a’ done it, this morning, before you came.”

The man laughed out. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. I don’t mind your bluffing—as long as you play fair. But that cupboard is a give-away, dead easy.”

Uncle William sighed a little. “I wish had my clam-rake,” he said.

The man stared at him—

“I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance.

The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy hitched uneasily in his chair.

“There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard. “That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy. You’re smaller ’n I be.”

Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.”

“Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle for ye.”

Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping on the boards.

Uncle William withdrew the candle.

“He’s comin’ out,” he said.

The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.

Slowly Andy backed into the room and lifted an awed face. In his hand he held a small monse-trap. “There ain’t a durned thing left,” he said, “except this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large grin stole into his face. “I put that monse-trap there—time Juno run away,” he said—“the time you was down to New York.” He had turned to William.

Uncle William was looking at the fish-warden, a kindly smile on his face.

The warden ignored it. “I’ll trouble you for that candle,” he said, “I’ll take a look myself.”

Uncle William handed it to him and he held it far into the cupboard, peering at the top and sides and floor. He withdrew it, blowing it out with a quick puff—“You’ve got off this time,” he said, “but that smell ought to convict you—if there was any justice in law.”

“Well, I do’ ’no ’s there is,” said Uncle William, “do you? It does smell good.” He sniffed a little. “‘Seems’s if they ought to put that in the schedule they send us, ’Any lobsters, claws or smells found in the possession of any person whatsoever.’.rdquo; Uncle William marked off the count on his fingers with kindly eye and beamed. “You could fine me fifty dollars, or some such matter as that—for that cupboard, I should think.” The eyes behind the big spectacles twinkled with good fellowship.

The fish-warden looked at him. Then he looked at the empty cupboard and at Andy and the mouse-trap—He smiled a little. “You might speak to them about the law yourself,” he said. “I can testify it ought to be changed.”

“We ’d like to speak to ’em,” said Uncle William, “—about a good many things. About this lobster-law, now,” He motioned toward the mouse-trap, “We don’t want any such law. I ain’t a canning factory. We ain’t pirates, nor lawbreakers here—”

The young man smiled a little.

“Not without we have to be,” said Uncle William quickly. “They’re our lobsters, and mostly we know what’s good for ’em—and what’s good for us, and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no inspector.... Not but what we’re always glad to see you,” he said. He held out his hand kindly. “I know—by the looks of your wife and babies—you’re a good man.”

The young man took the big hand, smiling a little. “I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Benslow,” he said slowly. He looked at him a minute, as if something in the big face puzzled him. Then he turned away with a little shake of his head. “I shouldn’t want to meet you regularly—not if I’m going to keep on being fish-warden,” he said.

Uncle William chuckled a little. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Mason—there’s lots of jobs for them that needs ’em—some of ’em right and some of ’em wrong—and I reckon the main thing is to do what we hev to do as well as we can and not worry.”

He watched the young man down the rocky path, trundling his wheel beside him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big hand along Juno’s back, as it arched to his touch, smoothing it slowly.

Andy looked at him with sheepish grin. “Where ’d you put ’em, Willum?” he said.

Uncle William glanced out of the window at the dimpling harbor. A little breeze blew across it and the waves darkened and ran. He smiled at them and then at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest mended,’ so I took ’em down and heaved ’em. It hurt Juno some—” He smoothed the gray back gently, “But she feels all right about it now, I guess, same as we do.”

V

UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path. Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth. “‘Morning, George,” he called.

The young man came on, with even, swift steps that did not hurry. He held an envelope in his hand. “Letter for you, Uncle,” he said.

Uncle William laid down the frying-pan and held out his hand. A mild and benevolent curiosity held the big face. His look welcomed the whole world shut up in the bit of envelope. He took it and studied the inscription and pushed up his spectacles, looking at the young man with satisfaction. “Set down, Georgie,” he said—“It’s from Celia.”

“Who’s Celia?” asked the young man. He seated himself on a rock and plucked a stem of grass, taking it in his teeth.

Uncle William looked at him again and settled slowly into the doorway—filling it, with the big, checked apron about him—“You ain’t ever seen Celia, I reckon?” he said.

“Don’t believe I have,” responded

George. He was looking across the harbor, turning the bit of grass between his teeth. His glance sought the envelope again, “Come from around here?” he asked.

Uncle William opened it with slow, careful fingers. “Well, not exactly round here.” He drew out the sheet and smoothed it on his knee and rubbed his fingers on his apron, and took up the paper, holding it arm’s length. “It’s somebody ’t ’s coming to live with us,” he explained kindly.

“Oh—?”

Uncle William read on. He laid down the paper and took off his glasses, waving them at the landscape. “Some like a woman!” he said.

George turned and looked behind him.

“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.”

“Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a little contemptuous.

Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with women, was ye, George?”

“I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.”

“Yes—you al’ays keep a-doin’—same as I do,” said Uncle William. “But I’ve kind o’ watched ’em—between times—women. They’re interestin’,” he added, “—a leetle more interesting ’n men be, I reckon.”

A little smile held the face opposite him. “Men are good enough for me,” he said.

“You can talk to men—sensible—know what they mean.”

“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s what I like about women—you can’t tell what they mean—it keeps you guessing, kind of—makes you feel lively in your mind.”

“My mind’s lively enough without that,” said George carelessly. His eye was on the dark water and the little white-caps that rode on it.

“Well, I do’ ’no’. I like to have a good many things to think about—when I’m settin’,” said Uncle William, “and when I’m sailin’. I keep quite a lot of ’em tucked away in my mind somewheres—and fetch ’em out when I have a minute or two, quiet-like, to myself.” He touched the letter in his hand, almost reverently, “The’s suthin about women ’t I can’t make out—” he said, “If it’s a wedding or a funeral or going away, or whatever ’tis—most the first thing they think about is their clothes—like Celia here—” he touched the letter again.... “Now, that’s interestin’—’bout their clothes, ain’t it!” He beamed on him.

The young man returned the look tolerantly. “Foolishness,” he said.

Uncle William nodded. “I know—foolishness for you and me and Andy—and for Benjy, mebbe. But ’tain’t foolishness for women. You can see that, the way they do it. It’s kind o’ like goin’ to church to ’em and they don’t really feel right without they’re doing it.... It’s kind o’ pretty to see ’em—al’ays a-makin’ and plannin’—and makin’ ’em for the little ones ’fore they come—turning ’em over, and showin’ ’em to other women, like enough—not sayin’ much—just lookin’ at ’em.”

The young man on the rock stirred uneasily.

Uncle William went on hastily. “I reckon it ain’t wrong for Celia to think about getting her clothes ready.” He was smiling at the letter. “It’s when they stop thinkin’ about ’em that it’s wrong.... Why, it’s kind o’ awful!” he added severely.

The young man laughed out. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Uncle William. “—Like Andy’s wife’s!” he said.

“Like Harr’et,” assented Uncle William. “Harr’et ’ll wear anything—anything ’t covers her, that is. She ’d wear sailcloth, I reckon, if ’t wa ’n’t so hard to sew—old ones, you know, ’t was wore out for sailin’. Harr’et wouldn’t waste new sails on her.... And that kind o’ hard way she has of doin’ her hair—like a doughnut—only harder—” Uncle William rubbed the back of his head reflectively. “I do’ ’no’ what ’tis about Harr’et. I al’ays feel’s if the woman part of her was gone off somewheres.... It’s the woman part ’t makes ’em interestin’, I reckon. You al’ays kind o’ wonder—”

“Andy don’t wonder much,” said the young man. “He’s learned mostly.” He was regarding Uncle William curiously and his face had an alert look. “I never thought about women that way before,” he said, turning the bit of grass in his teeth. “You make ’em seem interesting, Uncle William—as interesting as a boat—or fishing—or doing arithmetic.” He laughed out.

“Celia’s letter reads to me ’s if she ’d kind o’ keep you guessing,” said Uncle William, taking it up.

“I’ve got to be going,” said George. He stood up.

“Now, don’t you go yet awhile, Georgie.” Uncle William got to his feet, looking about him, “The’s two-three little things I wanted to ask you about. The ketch to my cupboard door don’t work good.”

They went into the house and Uncle William tucked the letter behind the clock.

The young man examined the lock and took a file from his pocket and filed the catch a little, whistling softly. His face had a keen, happy look.

Uncle William filled the tea-kettle and put it on and came across and bent over the young man, a hand on either knee. “I al’ays like to watch ye doin’ things, George. You do ’em so kind o’ neat.”

The young man snapped the catch two or three times in the lock—“That ’ll work,” he said. He got to his feet, slipping the file into his pocket.

“Benjy needs somebody like you up to his place,” said Uncle William.

“I thought he ’d got a man from Boston.” The tone was non-committal and dry. The young man was looking at the window.

“Well, I guess he’s got somebody—He’s from Boston—yes. Benjy’s a good deal bothered,” added Uncle William hopefully.

George shook his head. “I don’t want to be building—as long as the fishing suits me.”

“Cod—so far,” said Uncle William.

“You can ’t tell what ’ll be along any day now,” said the young man. He moved toward the door.

“You think it over, George,” said Uncle William—he held up a benignant hand and cut off the answer—“You just think it over. Mebbe he won’t need you. But if he does—you ’ll hev to help him out, I guess. He’s livin’ on the Island now, you know, same as the rest of us.”

VI

UNCLE WILLIAM and Benjy had been away all day—up at the new house—and Andy’s wife had sent dinner to them.... They came home in the dusk, hungry and tired. “Harr’et’s cooking ’do ’t to be e’t hot,” said Uncle William. He looked up at his own house. “Hello! somebody’s visitin’ us.”

Benjy’s eye lighted. A glow from the red room shone in the dusk. “It’s the new girl,” he said. They quickened their pace a little.

Uncle William went ahead and opened the door. The little room was full of warm light and the pleasant smell of cooking. By the stove knelt a young girl, her hand on the oven door. She looked up as they came in and closed the door carefully. Then she got to her feet—a little smile on her face. “I’ve come, Mr. Benslow,” she said.

“We’re glad to see you,” said Uncle William heartily. He glanced at the table. “‘D you find dishes enough for a meal?”

A little dimple in her cheek came out, and ran away. “I washed a few,” she replied.

Uncle William’s eye ran along the shelf over the sink. “You’ve done ’em all!”

“Not quite—I put some of them outside by the door—pots and kettles and pans—”

“That’s what I fell over,” said Uncle William, “I gen’ally keep ’em under the sink—out o’ sight—kind of—?” He looked at her.

“I saw where you kept them.” She had dear, searching eyes and quick little movements that ran ahead of her and did things for her. “Supper is ready,” she said. “The biscuit are just right.” She took the biscuit from the oven and set chairs for them at the table and flitted about, with quick, soft steps. Juno, on her lounge, huddled herself a little and turned her halfshut eyes on the swish of skirts. By and by she got down and came over to Uncle William.

He fed her a bit of fish and she returned to her lounge, closing her eyes. “She knows suthin’ ’s happened,” said Uncle William, “Her mind’s going round and round.”

Bodet smiled. “She looks placid enough.”

“You can’t tell that way,” said Uncle William. “Women ain’t like men-folks—not just like ’em. They ’ll smile and look polite and fix their faces—and then, all of a sudden, things ’ll happen.”

A little laugh bubbled over from the sink.

Uncle William turned in his chair and looked at her. He adjusted his glasses and looked again. “‘D you say anything, Celia?”

“No, sir—I just thought it was kind of funny about women—”

“So ’tis,” said Uncle William, “It’s funny’s anything I know—the way women be. I take a sight o’ comfort thinkin’ about women and the way they be.”

“Yes, sir—would you like some more tea?”

Uncle William waved it away—“Not another mite. We’ve had a good supper.” He pushed back from the table. “Now, we ’ll help you clear up a little—” He looked about him.

“I don’t want anybody to touch my dishes,” she said promptly.

Uncle William looked at her over his glasses. “I was going to show you where things be,” he said.

“I know where everything is.’.rdquo; The little smile played about her lips. “And I don’t need any help.” She whisked the cloth from the table and bore it away.

Uncle William’s eye followed her.

“There’s a letter for you.” She took it from behind the dock and laid it on the table.

Uncle William took it up with slow fingers. “I gen’ally read my letters first thing,” he said reflectively.

“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.”

Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at the postmark.

“I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading bits from the letter.

The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door.

Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see about getting ready to go with you.”

“I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.”

“The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern.

“I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path over the cliff.

Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.”

“She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark.

“She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!”

VII

I’VE got a fire made, Celia. You come right along in,” said Uncle William. He regarded her kindly as she stood in the doorway, her curls freshened in the wind and her cheeks touched with clear pink—like the morning outside.

She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in.

Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly—

A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a scornful hand at the wood in the box.

“‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was set, in the sunshine, with plates for two.

“Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he set the pail on its shelf.

She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.

“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William.

“Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it to the table, filling the glasses.

“Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William, glancing at the table.

“I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added pointedly.

Uncle William’s face fell. “I did kind o’ forget—” The door opened and Benjy came out—yawning, but brisk. “Well, we’ve got a good start,” he said. He nodded to the girl and sat down.

Uncle William looked relieved. “I thought you ’d kind o’ mind getting up so early?” he said.

Bodet laughed out. “I don’t mind getting up—It’s waiting for breakfast that I mind.”

Uncle William looked out of the window. “I go kind o’ slow on breakfasts,” he admitted. He craned his neck a little—“Guess George is going out.” He glanced behind him. The girl had stepped outside the door a minute and Uncle William leaned forward with a confidential whisper, “She ’d make a dretful good wife for a young man, wouldn’t she!”

“You ’d better eat your breakfast, William—and be thankful,” said Bodet severely.

Uncle William made no reply. A look of deep craft was in his eye. When Bodet started off, he lingered behind.

“I’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy,” he said. He nodded to him kindly. “You go tell Ordway what you want and I’ll talk to him ’bout it when I come. I reckon he ’ll do it the way you want it,” he said hopefully.

Bodet disappeared up the road, and Uncle William pottered about the door. By and by he went in.

The girl glanced up quickly. “I thought you ’d gone.”

“No, I ain’t gone.” Uncle William’s tone was cheerful. “The’s two-three little things I want to tend to.” He strayed into the bedroom and when he came out she was seated by the window paring potatoes. “I’ll have to soak ’em an hour,” she said briskly, “You ought to buy some new ones.”

“They be kind o’ old,” said Uncle William. He glanced past her, out of the window. “Nice place to set,” he suggested.

She did not look up.

“Guess George Manning’s going out,” said Uncle William.

“Who’s George Manning?” said Celia. She finished another potato, with efficiency, and dropped it into the pan of water beside her.

“George Manning—He’s about the nicest young man on the Island, I guess,” said Uncle William innocently.

A little laugh flitted at the potatoes.

She glanced out of the window and returned to her work.

Uncle William’s look deepened. “He ’d make a dretful good husband for somebody.”

“I don’t believe much in husbands,” she replied. She held the knife in her hand, and she was looking at him with candid, laughing eyes.

Uncle William returned the look reproachfully. “You don’t have no call to say that, Celia!”

“I’ve been engaged,” she replied promptly. She took up another potato with a little glance of scorn at it.

Uncle William leaned forward. “When you goin’ to be married?” he asked happily, “I might ’a’ known you was engaged—nice as you be!”

She looked at him. “I’m not engaged any more,” she replied, “I just was.”

Uncle William’s face was full of sympathy. “I didn’t know ’t you ’d lost anybody,” he said. “You poor little girl!”

She looked up again—a little puzzled line between her eyes, “He wasn’t so much—to lose—” she said slowly.

“When was it he died?” asked Uncle William.

She stared at him. Then she laughed and threw out her hands in a quick gesture. “You thought he died!” she said.

“Didn’t you say so?” demanded Uncle William.

“I didn’t mean that—” She returned, a little guiltily, to her potatoes.

Uncle William looked at her.

“I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her head with a little defiant movement.

Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles.

She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the faint sound of voices came from the beach.

“He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the other girls wanted him—”

“George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.”

She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness, “I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re selfish—and stupid and lazy—!”

Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said.

He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to think about it that way?”

Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—”

“It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly.

“It’s the nicest one I ever had,” she said. A little laugh lighted her face—“and it will be the nicest one that ever was when I’ve cleaned up a little.” She dried her hands on the towel, looking down at them. “I know what you mean, Mr. Benslow—about ’little ones’—I guess every woman knows about that—and wants ’em,” she added, under her breath, to the towel. “But there’s some things we can’t have!” She took down the broom from the wall. “Now, if you’re going out, I’ll sweep up a little.”

Uncle William did not look back. “Andy’s coming,” he said, “I guess we ’ll go see how Benjy’s getting on—Don’t you mind anything I said, Celia. I’m kind o’ old and foolish, like enough.” The girl did not reply. But when he had gone, she came to the door and stood looking after him—and the dancing look in her eyes grew wistful and sweet.

VIII

WE used to meet on this rock when we was boys,” said Uncle William, sitting down, “—You remember them times, Andy?”

“I don’t remember nothin’,” said Andy. Uncle William looked at him. “I do’ ’no’ how you forget so easy.... I can see it all, just as plain as you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock first—and planning suthin’—suthin’ ’t we hadn’t o’t to.... Seems kind o’ good to have Benjy back—just ’s if he ’d never been off the island?”

“He’s changed some,” said Andy. “Well—outside he’s peaked up a little—but inside, I can’t see a mite o’ difference. He gets mad just about ’s easy ’s ever,” said Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like. He stopped and gazed at a figure that loomed on the horizon at the end of the long road. They watched the light, high-stepping figure come swiftly down the road.

“He’s got something on his mind,” said Uncle William, “I can see by the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that contractor does bother him—a good deal,” he added thoughtfully.

The man came on quickly, lessening his gait a little as he neared the rock, and taking off his hat to the breeze. “Feels good,” he said, nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.” He turned his head slowly, taking in great whiffs of the fresh, bracing air. “I’ve fired him,” he said.

“You hev!” Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s good—He’s fired him, Andy—”

“When’s he going to leave?” asked Andy.

“He’s going to leave just as soon as he can pack,” said Bodet with satisfaction, “He’s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his thin legs and looked at them. “I don’t think I ever knew a man that irritated me the way he did,” he said reflectively.

“I see he kind o’ did,” said Uncle William.

Andy looked out to sea. “Harr’et was boardin’ him,” he said, “She was cal’-lating on the board money—right along.” His eye dropped to Bodet.

The man threw out an impatient leg.

“Now, don’t you mind about that,” said Uncle William hastily, “Benjy ’ll fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his house, and it’s got to be somebody that ’ll eat—somebody with a stomach.”

The thin man sat up, smiling a little.

“I wish to the Lord I knew whose stomach it was!” he said, “It’s like trying to build a house in heaven—having to import contractors and masons and plumbers—”

Uncle William chuckled—— “We gen’ally use the home-folks, round here,” he said after a pause.

Bodet looked at him a little. “You wouldn’t build a twenty-thousand dollar house just with the home-folks, would you!”

“I do’ ’no’ why not,” said Uncle William, “It ain’t so much different from any other house, fur as I see—just more of it—more spread. There’s George Manning,” he suggested.

“The carpenter?” Bodet’s lip smiled.

“Well—he ain’t exactly a carpenter—not exactly,” said Uncle William. “He’s a fisherman too—first-class—and he can steer any kind of a craft you want to rig up. He was captain on the Halifax Line one spell.” Uncle William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man knows more ’n George Manning does.... I never see the thing yet George wa ’n’t willing to tackle. Seems’s if he kind o’ liked to try his hand at things folks said couldn’t be done. I’ve seen him sit up night after night figgering on things—”

“He ’ll have to figure some on this,” said Bodet. He drew the plans from his pocket. “This is what we’ve just split on—Ordway and I—” He spread out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a little toward it. Andy dropped an eye from above.... “This is it,” said Bodet. “You see how that roof-line comes down, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Uncle William looked at it with pleased smile—“Comfy, ain’t it—Sort o’ makes a house look like an old hen with her chickens.”

“That’s it,” said Bodet quickly, “It’s the very thing I want—a house that settles down among the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect got the idea all right—from photographs. But he hadn’t been here and we hadn’t allowed for that dip to the south—You know it?”

Uncle William nodded. “Drops fo’-five feet, I should think?”

“Six—: a little over six,” replied Bodet, “and this is the kind of thing he wanted—Ordway wanted!” He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the air, this way, and put a lattice-work underneath.... paint it green, I suppose.” He snorted a little.

“Does look kind o’ funny—don’t it, Andy?” said Uncle William.

“Looks good enough—far as I see,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a lot of houses built that way.”

“—So have I,” broke in Bodet. He crushed the paper in his hand. “It’s a seaside cottage,” he said, “—a regular seaside cottage!”

“I do’ ’no’ what you feel that way about it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a cottage and ’tis built on the sea—right along side—”

Bodet got impatiently to his feet—“Ordway couldn’t see, either. That’s why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizzed a little and straightened his garments and shook his legs.

“There, there, Benjy,—don’t you mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,” said Uncle William soothingly.

Benjy smiled—the thin, sweet smile that seemed to come of itself from somewhere behind the high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice spoke to it, “All right, William, I won’t mind—now I’ve got Ordway off my hands. I thought one time he would drive me crazy—”

“I didn’t know but he would, too,” said Uncle William, “You acted kind o’ queer.”

“Well, I felt kind o’ queer,” responded Bodet dryly. “Now, about Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him.... He might do—with a little watching.”

IX

BENJY thought mebbe you ’d do the whole thing, George!”

The three men stood on the site of the new house. Across the rocks and moor Uncle William’s chimney showed against the sky, and below them the water of the harbor dimpled in little waves of light.

Benjamin Bodet stood looking across it, a kind of quiet satisfaction in his face.

“He’s been a good deal bothered,” said Uncle William to the younger man. They moved a little aside and looked at him. “What he wants,” said Uncle William, “is somebody that ’ll take everything off him—do all the figgerin’ and plannin’ that comes up and trot round and get things—men, you know—and things you run out of and can’t get on the Island. It’s kind o’ hard building out at sea,” he said tentatively, “But you could do it?” He turned to him.

“Yes, I could do it—if he wants me to,” said Manning. He held the stalk of grass between his teeth and it turned slowly as he talked, “I’d like to build a house like this one—such as he’s planning for.... There must be a good many things come up, you won’t know how to do.” He moved his hand toward the circumference about them, with a half gesture.

“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “That’s just what I told Benjy.... You take the whole thing over—tell him how much ’twill cost, and so on—figger it out?”

“Beforehand!” said the man with a slow look.

Uncle William nodded. “He wants to know before he begins. I told him mebbe you couldn’t do it—but he’s kind o’ set on it.” He looked at the other a little anxiously. The man chewed the bit of grass in silence.

“Ordway ’d done it,” said Uncle William simply.

Manning turned a slow eye on him. “How ’d he know he could get men—here on the Island—and keep ’em!” he demanded.

“Well, he didn’t know it, George.” Uncle William chuckled a little. “I reckon he ’d ’a’ learned quite a few things about the Island—if he ’d ’a’ kep’ on it.”

“I reckon he would,” said the man with a slow smile. “I can’t tell Bodet what it ’ll cost—What if a barge-load of lumber should be held up, getting here?—Might have to wait weeks—Suppose I can’t get anybody to board ’em—”

“Andy ’ll board ’em,” said Uncle William.

“Umph,” said the man.

“An’ Andy’s wife—you want to put her in. She might up an’ say she wouldn’t, any day?”

Manning shook his head. “I can’t sign any contract, and I can’t tell him what it will cost—not within a good many dollars—a house like that—but if he wants me to build it, I’ll take it and do my best for him.”

“The’s a good many things might happen,” allowed Uncle William, turning it slowly in his mind. “The Widow Deman’s well might go dry and then where ’d you be, with your mortar and plaster and cement, if that well run dry?”

The man looked at him.

“You ’d want to put the well in,” Uncle William suggested, “if you should make the contract—”

“You can’t clutter up a contract that way. I’m not going to make any contract to build a house on this Island.”

“He ’ll want to do what’s fair,” said Uncle William. “S’pose you go see about the well whilst I talk with him,” he added diplomatically.

The man moved in the direction of a little house a few rods away and Uncle William turned toward the tall figure pacing back and forth on the short-cropped turf.

Bodet turned as he came up. “Who cares about building a house!” he said. “Look at that sky and water and all this—!” His gesture took in the rocks and turf and the flock of sheep feeding their way up the hill to the horizon.

Uncle William’s eye followed it all placidly. “You do get over being in a hurry—up here,” he said slowly, “I reckon it’s because the Lord’s done so well by it—got a chance to finish things up—without folks meddling too much—it seems kind o’ foolish to hurry ’bout things.... Well, George ’ll do your house for you—if you want him to.”

“I’m willing to try him,” said the man with a little note of condescension. “Where’s he gone!”

“He’s just stepped over to the Widow Deman’s well,” said Uncle William.

“He ’ll sign the contract, of course!”

“Well—” Uncle William hesitated. “He ’ll sign one, I guess, if you say so—If I was buildin’ a house, I’d just go ahead and build—if I could get George Manning.”

The tall man fidgeted a little. “Suppose he takes a notion—feathers his own nest while he’s building my house,” he said at last.

Uncle William’s eyes grew large—then they laughed. “George Manning ain’t a bird of the air, Benjy—and he’s pretty well past feathers now.... Curious, I didn’t understand about that contract,” he said after a little pause. “It never come over me that you thought George wouldn’t do the square thing by you... and I guess he wouldn’t ’a’ got it through his head all summer—that you thought he was going to cheat you—! Lucky I didn’t think of it,” he added, “I’d ’a’ made a muss of it somehow and you wouldn’t ’a’ got your house built—not this year, anyhow.” He looked at him sympathetically.

Bodet smiled. “I didn’t suppose there was a man left, you could trust like that,” he said.

“Well, George ain’t left exactly. He’s just here with the rest of us,” said Uncle William—“Folks mean to do ’bout what’s right up here, I guess. And I do’ ’no’ but that’s about as easy way as any. I’ve tried both kinds of places—honest and say nothin’—and places where they cheats and signs papers, and I do’ ’no’ ’s it’s any better ’n our way—just going along and doing as well as you can and expectin’ other folks to.... He’s coming back,” said Uncle William. They watched the young man move across the rocks toward them—thin and spare-built and firm. His face, tempered fine like a piece of old bronze, held a thoughtful look, and the stalk of grass between his teeth turned with gentle motion as he came.

“How ’d you find it?” said Uncle William.

He looked up. “It’s all right—fourteen feet of water, I guess.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and turned to Bodet—“I’ve been running it over in my mind a little,” he said slowly “and if that’s any use to you, I’m willing to sign it.”

Bodet took the paper in his thin fingers and swung his glasses to his nose. Uncle William looked at him with pleased smile.

The glasses swung down from the long nose. “What has the Widow Deman’s well got to do with my house!” he said expressively?

Uncle William leaned forward. “That’s my idee, Benjy.” He looked over the high shoulder—

“I will build your house for $25,000, provided and allowed the Widow Deman’s well holds out.

“(Signed) George Manning.”

“That’s right, George—that’s fust-rate,” said Uncle William, “You’ve put it high enough to cover you—and Benjy, too.”

“It would seem so,” said Bodet. “Ordway had figured twenty thousand—and he’s not cheap.”

“I told George to make it high—more ’n it could possibly figger up to,” said Uncle William with satisfaction, “so ’s ’t you ’d get something back—’stead o’ having to pay out more ’n you expected to. I thought that was what you wanted the contract for,” he added significantly.

“I see—Well, it’s a bargain—and without any pieces of paper.” He tore what was in his hands through, and handed it back with a little courteous gesture of decision—“If I’m going to build on the Island, I’ll build as the Island builds.”

“That’s right, Benjy. Now, let’s have a look at them plans.” Uncle William found a rock and sat down. The other two men moved from point to point, driving in stakes, and pulling them out, measuring lines and putting down new ones. While they were doing it, a big wind blew in around and proceeded to pile up clouds and roll them up the hill behind them. Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet, moving to and fro before them.

“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.

“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan. “He wants his chimney—”

Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”

“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”

“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him thoughtfully. “I do’ ’no’s I can tell you, George, what he wants it that way for—You see he set by that chimney when he was a boy—and the’s something about it—about the idee, you know?”

The carpenter looked at him with slow, smiling eyes. “‘Tain’t the chimney, then—He kind o’ likes the idea of a chimney—does he?... He didn’t say anything about the idea,” he added, “He just kind o’ fussed around when I tried to shift her—” He looked at the paper in his hand. “Well—I can’t tell—yet. I’ve got to figure on it—I’ll go down now and order my lumber, I guess.” He moved away toward the road and Uncle William got up.

He crossed over to the old chimney and stood looking toward the hill that mounted above it. The sun had disappeared and the dark turf was soft.... Long reaches of turf and the cropping sheep that moved across it in slow shapes. Uncle William drew a deep breath and turned to the man who stood silent beside him—his eyes on the hill. “Does seem like home, don’t it, Benjy?” he said quietly, in the big, deep voice that boomed underneath like the sea.

X

THE young carpenter approached Bodet cautiously with his solution of the roof-line. They had talked it over a dozen times and Bodet had become restlessly impatient.... Ordway might be right, after all.... He looked at different forms of lattice-work and stone foundations and swore softly at a terrace—Ordway’s idea—with morning glories alongside.... Uncle William, any day, at any time of day, was in favor of a new plan altogether. He stood ready to furnish details—like his own house, mebbe, only bigger.... After this suggestion, every time it came up, he went out and sat on the rocks a long while and looked at the water. Andy coming by hailed him. “What you doing?” he called.

“Just a-settin’ here a little,” replied Uncle William.

“Ain’t Benjy to home?” demanded Andy.

“Yes, he’s to home,” admitted William.

Andy looked toward the house.

“I wouldn’t go in, if I was you,” said William, “He’s kind o’ tending to things—in his mind.”

But if Bodet fretted at delays and slow decisions and failure of material to arrive, he caught the spirit of the place, after a little, and settled down to it and held up work—a week at a time—while he changed details or pottered over new ones. Uncle William—in his element—went back and forth between the old chimney-place and his house, carrying ideas and bricks with impartial hand. George Manning, with one eye on his plans and the other on his men, pushed the work or held it back, as the wind blew. When the men grumbled over a foundation wall torn out and put in again, with a hair’s breadth of difference, he looked at them with slow, sympathetic eye and admitted that it wasn’t so very much different, maybe—just enough to look different, somehow.

It was when he had studied on the roofline a week or more, that he came in one morning—a look of cautious elation in his face.

Bodet sat before the fire reading day-before-yesterday’s paper. Uncle William was pottering about, finishing the last of the dishes, and Celia was down at, Andy’s helping Harriet who was ill.

Bodet looked up as the young man came in, and laid down his paper. “How is it coming on?” he said. The tone was mild. He had had a good night’s rest, and he had come somehow to share Uncle William’s belief that Manning would find a way out—“only give him time enough and suthin’ to figger on.”

The young man seated himself on the red lounge, his hat between his knees. “I don’t suppose you ’d like going up and down stairs?” he said.

Bodet looked at him a little quizzically and swung his glasses to his nose. “That depends,” he replied.

“It won’t be stairs exactly,” said Manning, “just steps, maybe. You drop the floor of the south room to get your level and then put some steps here—” He came over with the paper.

Bodet took it in cautious fingers.

Manning bent over him. “There’s the living-room and the fire-place,” He indicated the rough lines, “—just where you want them—You kind of look down into the room, you see, when the door’s open—instead of all on a level—?”

“I see.” Bodet studied it with lifting face.

Uncle William came over and stood by them, his dish towel on his arm and his glasses alert—“The house sort o’ climbs down the rocks, don’t it?” he suggested. “I’ve seen them that way—foreign parts—a lot.” The glow in his face swept the room. “I do’ ’no’ how we didn’t come to think of it, fust thing—easy as settin’.”

“Just about,” said Bodet. “How did you get it?” He looked at the young man. “You never saw a room like that, did you?”

“No, I never saw one,” he replied slowly—“but something ’d got to give way somewheres. You wouldn’t let the roof-line be touched, nor the ground, and there wasn’t anything left to give way—but the floor. I guess it kind of dropped down by itself—while I was figuring on it.” He looked at it fondly.

“It improves the thing fifty per cent,” said Bodet. He held off the paper, scanning it with happy vision, “We ’ll have a little railing here, with carving on it, and something leading up to it—It’s the feature of the place.” He handed it back. “Go ahead with it. There isn’t anything else to decide, is there?”

“No. Things are coming on.” He took the paper, tucking it in his pocket. “The ’Happy Thought’ got in last night with her lumber and the new masons came this morning. I was kind of bothered about their not getting here, and the Widow Deman’s well going dryer and dryer all the while, and no brickwork getting done. I’ll go set ’em to work.” He nodded and was gone.

Uncle William looked after him with smiling face. “He’s a nice boy,” he said, “You just can’t find a thing George can’t figger out.”

“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.”

“Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest.

“A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you and me, William—old men—with our work done—”

“Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,” and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something.

Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and suffered—”

“That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on the Island—specially since you come,” he added.

The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. A young man must go out into the world—and do things.”

Uncle William hung his dish towel on the line. The big face in its tufts of beard glowed at Benjy over the top—“I suppose folks ’d say there’s bigger things I could be doin’—than wash dishes—but I do’ ’no’ what they be,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s things I’d like better—it’s terrible fussy—getting ’em clean and keepin’ ahead, so ’s ’t you ’ll have enough for a meal—and I’m putty glad Celia’s coming back.... I’ve thought about it, Benjy—a good many times—” He came over and sat down, “—’bout living here on the Island. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.”

“There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their slender chain.

“Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs with kindly eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any happier?” he said slowly.

“You know I’m not happier.” The man turned with a quick smile, “There are not many men happier than you are, William.”

“No, I suppose the’ ain’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think how happy I be—Seems kind o’ shiftless,” he added thoughtfully, “Like enough, I ought to be out hustling for suthin’—But I do’ ’no’ what it ’d be?”

“Manning ought to get out into the world—and he’s going to—when he’s finished my house.... It’s all right for you, William. You’ve earned a rest.”

Uncle William smiled. “I don’t want any rest, Benjy—no more ’n George Manning—I like to keep a-doing—kind o’ gradual-like—al’ays did.... I can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the little window.

“You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.

William smiled at him—his broad, kind smile, “‘Twas a kind o’ funny idea—my saying that—wa ’n’t it? I do’ ’no’ why I get to thinking about things—and about me and the Lord.... I reckon it’s because I’m out in a boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and watching how he does things—and kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about it—suthin’ about the way the tides come in and the sun goes down and the stars come out—that makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning, a good many times—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along in, towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You can’t think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said Uncle William thoughtfully.

He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily. He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along good, Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled and deepened. “It’s most too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with a shrewd glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”

Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”

“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him to see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked kindly at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”

“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room, “You did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”

“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had company whilst you was gone,” he added craftily.

She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house for him?” She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone outside.

Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever seen him, have you?”

“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near enough for me—seeing him go by.”

Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with Benjy,” he said.

XI

GEORGE MANNING looked about him with satisfaction. The walls of the new house were up and boarded in—so much was safe. He knew Bodet might appear any minute with a completely new plan—unless it could be staved off—but he reflected comfortably, as he looked up at the great broadside of boards before him, that he probably would not tear down the whole thing any more.... The sound of saws and hammers came with a cheerful falling rhythm—now together, and now in hurried broken notes—and the men on the roof were singing—a great blond Swede leading them.

Manning stepped into the living-room and stopped and gave a few directions to the masons and then moved over to the window and looked out. Far below him, the harbor reflected the dear sun and he squinted across it, scanning the horizon for the little black steamer that was to bring Portland cement and a consignment of windows. The windows had been due three weeks now—and the work would be handicapped if they did not come soon. He turned away and attacked his work, whistling softly.

“Morning, George.” It was Uncle William—big and happy—in the doorway, beaming down upon him.

“Morning, Uncle—Mr. Bodet come up with you?”

“He’s outside somewheres. He’s got a new idee—about the well.”

Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane toward him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.

Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine, feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted across it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his thumb.

George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the length of the board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine mingling with the salt air.

Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he said thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”

The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.

William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things wrong.... I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s when things are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable—that I get grumpy, I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the house,” he added kindly.

“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out, don’t it?”

Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I feel. I cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to grass. Just set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind o’ light in my mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and returned to his whittling.

“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.

“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—” Uncle William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’ wondering if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”

“To wash—?”

“Well—not to wash exactly—but to leave around behind—suthin’ I’d o’t to, and didn’t.... All the way up the road I keep kind o’ missing ’em—wishing I’d find ’em under the sink, mebbe, when I get back.... I wouldn’t want to do ’em exactly, when I got there, I suppose. But I do miss ’em.” He shook his head.

Manning pushed a heap of shavings aside with his foot and bent to his plane again. “I can find things enough, most any day—things I ought to do—and don’t—easy job, Uncle William.”

Uncle William looked at him. “You ought to be considerable happy, George,” he said slowly.

“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd, thin face followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—if that’s what you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench and carried it across the room.

Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of getting married, George?” he said casually.

The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in place. “Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the board and took up his saw.

Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and stood in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The sound of the hammers trooped in and out through the silence.

Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll go find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock near by. Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see Benjy’s head moving back and forth.

“Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down.

By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber.

“We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William. “Celia sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve, sharp.” Uncle William’s face was guileless.

Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I want about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about it.”

“George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William.

“Have the windows come?” asked Bodet.

“Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice house, Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to look like I thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen, you know—spreading her wings and settling down.”

Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your George Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.”

“He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him might be different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously.

“I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out, I suppose—before we’re through.”

“Oh, he ’ll do this all right.”

Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?”

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.”

Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”

They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”

“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”

“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along yet—not quite a while yet.”

“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.

“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the bench—can’t we, George?”

“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned toward the door.

“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”

The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How do you do,” he said.

“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words and whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She looked down at her hands. Then she held out one of them.

The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little and laid it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.

She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket and set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim Gunnion’s team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the basket. “There’s your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—” She set the things on the table, at one side—“and here’s your tablecloth.” She blew the bits of shavings from the bench and spread a red cloth across its width.

Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere below them.

“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet impersonally.

“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.” She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s the salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took the lid from the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the pail,” she said. “You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m going now. You can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She stood in the door—and was gone.

Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young man was regarding him soberly.

“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’ was enough for three—easy.”

“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little, apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.

Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s a dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.

The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see Marshall—about the well.”

Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after dark, you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee—’bout the well.”

“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested Manning.

Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’ about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—”

“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”

“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.

“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.

“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.”

Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”

Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”

“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.”

Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”

Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”

He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”

Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in.

XII

THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor.

The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.

“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his feet down.

The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”

“It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever. You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”

A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard, you know?”

“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.

“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin and towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She motioned him off.

Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et has ’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”

The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr. Bodet coming?”

“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick now.” He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl stood twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about the shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came and went.

“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in. His face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up straight.

The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I guess.” She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he doesn’t come pretty quick,” she said.

“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.

“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”

“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean George Manning, I guess.”

“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.”

Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove—that steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it tenderly. Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet—You go show him where to wash—while I take up the dumplings—” She lifted the kettle, and Uncle William went meekly to the door. “You wash up out here, Benjy,” said Uncle William. He waved his hand at the toilet articles ranged on the bench by the door—“It’s a nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your towel.... She ’ll let us come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.

Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.

Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where folks can’t see you doing things so.”

“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the landscape.

Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he said.

Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.

“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.

While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out for their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the door and hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted in the door—but it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it off.

Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a canary around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—She likes doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks around you that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever seen the way Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”

Bodet shook his head.

Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et don’t really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at the bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean, you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat looking before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—about women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that makes me feel happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that way a-purpose—kind o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could bend easy—and stay kind o’ curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and watched ’em in meetin’, a good many times, when they didn’t know I was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’ comfort with ’em.”

Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”

Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and returned to William.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—Hello!—There’s George!”

They pushed back from the table and went outside.

XIII

THE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance something troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the dusk had fallen on it and traveled with little restless waves.

Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.

“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on the bit of grass between them and held it hard.

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set for a big school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re running shy.”

“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s why they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is worth—being a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”

Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah give the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight, you know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.

Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—Went out, I suppose?”

“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy. “That’s a big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the reddish bit of dusk glinting on it.

“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets—“Now, where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go look, George—a kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He felt again in his pocket and the young man went obediently toward the door.

Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few minutes to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.

“Isn’t it there?”

“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to the water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—You can see that plain enough—”

“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my house.”

“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out there—” Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many hunderd—if he had luck—”

“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work—and sure pay,” said Bodet.

Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—The ’s suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled skeptically.

“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the mackerel feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the water.... “The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand—“Suthin’ ’t keeps sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’ kind o’ low like. Why, some days I go out and sail around—just sail around. Don’t ketch anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right out.... You ain’t ever felt it, I guess?”

Benjy shook his head.

“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em done for ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—” Uncle William looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me won’t ever get, like enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But we wouldn’t swap with ye, Benjy.”

“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a sense that there’s something you won’t ever get.”

Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—Suthin’ ’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the water... “and some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel, like enough—and bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the dock—and sayin’ ’How many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and runnin’ and fussin’—and then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get kind o’ big and dark out there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty barrel and about gettin’ money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to heave ’em out and go again.” Uncle William paused—drawing a big sigh from some deep place.... “That’s the way George feels, I reckon.... If he stays and works on your house, Benjy—’twon’t be because he wants money.”

The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in here,” he said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and the color in his face was dear scarlet.

Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in the right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”

In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look. She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.

“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.

Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”

She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.

“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.

Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”

Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”

“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She held it out.

The young man searched for his hat.

“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly from the open door and vanished.

George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He had found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.

“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her, easy.”

“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in his eye.

Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and dancing on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called sternly.

The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went on.

Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and his big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came back—with little wavering steps and halted before him.

“What ’d you go running off like that for?”

Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.

“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’ for me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.

“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.

“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they be!” He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the neck—“I told Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for breakfast,” he said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—filling a basket that stood by the door.

The girl looked at it with round eyes.

“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”

She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at him.

“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give Celia a lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for her.”

The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with decisive hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he said.

She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she gave it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”

“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and she followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.

Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.

Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.

Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.” He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.

XIV

HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.

He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a putty early start.”

Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”

“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”

“You’re not going out?”

Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor.

Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”

“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”

Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.”

Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.

Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said.

“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly.

“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.

Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.

Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without me.”

“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.

Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He blew gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it whilst we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s two-three things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy. They’ve been always tagging me around since.” He settled a little more comfortably in his chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead, Benjy,” he said.

Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno jumped on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully up and down the grey back while the letter was being read.

A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be they? I can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she said?”

Bodet turned back and found the place.

“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to Vilna, taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will take the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the spring—going overland.’.

Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the whole thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific Isles.... Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?” He looked at him anxiously.

Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little. “Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to have a home for a little while again.”

“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it with shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He looked at him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like as not I’ll be putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”

“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was scanning the lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor beside him, looked up as if she would like to be invited.

Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped out into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.

The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great legs keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening to the little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full breaths of the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face cleared. The little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading of the letter disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little booming songs that began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—traveling along ahead....

On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and came out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory, folding it down in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern over the mound of net and gave a little running push and leaped in.... The oars in the thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded out in the night, and little phosphorescent gleams waked up along the water and ran in flocks behind him.

He rowed steadily out, his eyes on the stars. The night held a stillness—somewhere, through it, a voice might come. He held the boat, dipping the oars lightly and bending his head. He often waited—in the darkness or off on the moor.... Little sounds came—vague stirrings of quiet—and off a little way, the lights on the fishing boats bobbed at anchor. He dipped his oars and rowed again—long, restful pulls that drew on the strength of the night.... Alongside, in a minute, the stem of the Jennie loomed mistily and Uncle William scrambled aboard, fastening the dory and hanging his lantern to the mast—It threw its swaying light on the big figure as it moved about the boat. Over the eastern rim of hill the sky grew mysteriously thin and glowed—and a flood of light dropped on the harbor. The water darkened and the distant boats grew to shapes as the moon rose high, filling herself with light. Uncle William looked up. He put down the coil of rope he was stowing away and leaned back, looking at the clear, yellow ball riding over the hill. His eye traveled to the water and to the dim boats shaping themselves out of the dusk.... A contented smile held the big face.... He had been thinking of Sergia and Alan and his thoughts traveled again—following the track of the moon, out over the water, across the ocean—stretching to Russia and the far east.... Slowly the look grew in his face—a little wonder and a laugh. Then he sat up, looking about him. The filtering moonshine played on his face and he laughed—with low, quiet chuckles—and fell to work, giving the last touches to the boat—making things fast. He rowed back in slow silence. Along the beach, as he came near, little black shapes stood up and greeted him—lobster traps and barrels piled high, ends of dories, and boxes washed by the tide, and fantastic sprawls of net and seaweed. Uncle William stepped among them, with long, high step, and the smile still played on his face. Up on the cliff he could see the red glow of the window. Benjy might be up—might be awake.... Uncle William quickened his steps—

The man looked up with a satisfied, drowsy smile. The paper had dropped from his hand and his head was bent a little toward it. Uncle William nodded to him and hung up the lantern. “I’ve thought of something.”

“Have you?” Bodet sat up, yawning a light breath and feeling for his glasses. He put them on his nose and looked at William. “You were gone long enough to think,” he said.

“Yes—I was gone—quite a spell. I got to looking round,” said Uncle William. “Time gets away putty fast when you’re looking round and kind o’ thinkin’.” He chuckled again, with the big, kind smile that flooded his face. “What do you reckon made them want to go straight to Russia, Benjy?” He was looking at him shrewdly.

Bodet shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know—just a whim, perhaps—”

“Something nicer ’n a whim.... You ’d kind o’ like to think of it yourself—It makes things big somehow—big and kind o’ goin’ on forever-like—” His face was full of the glow now and the eyes behind the spectacles had a misty look—like the blue of the sea when the fog is traveling in.

Bodet got up and came across to him. “What is it, William!” he said gently.

“Just more folks on-the Island—” said Uncle William. “Little ones, you know—travelin’ round...; The’s suthin’ about it—I do’ ’no’ what ’t is, Benjy—but it makes you all kind o’ happy inside—thinking there’s goin’ to be more folks always, when you’re gone—living along in the same places and doin’ things.... I can kind o’ see ’em,” said Uncle William slowly, “—everywheres I go—there they be—plain as if I touched ’em. some of ’em—getting up in the morning and havin’ breakfast and goin’ out and looking at the sun and the rocks and the water and being happy—same as me—unhappy, too, some of the time—thinkin’ things ought to be different.... It makes it all seem big, don’t it, Benjy?” He reached out a hand.

The tall man took it. “So you think—?”

Uncle William nodded. “They ’ll be comin’ back some day—sailing into the harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one traveling with ’em. It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what the Lord made ’em that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little... but I don’t ever see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’ that kind o’ way they have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em without feelin’ real good somewheres inside. Everything breaks out all new—lights up, you know—’s if the fog had blown off suddenlike and you looked way out where the sun is.” Uncle William’s face held the glory of it all, but his voice had dropped a little.... He got up and went to the door and stepped into the night. Presently he reappeared and crossed over to the wood-box and looked in. “Guess I’ll bring in an armful of wood,” he said. “It might rain before morning.”

Benjy’s smile was very gentle as it followed him. “It can’t rain—a night like this, William.”

Uncle William returned to the door and Bodet followed him.... The moor was flooded with light—a magic world, hushed and waiting under its veil.... Uncle William’s eyes dwelt on it fondly. “I reckon I’ll bring in the wood,” he said. “Mebbe it won’t rain. But I kind o’ like to bring in wood when I’ve been thinkin’.” The great figure passed into the transparent night.

XV

C ELIA looked up from her work. “Did you have good luck?”

“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should think.” He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the beach. “I picked out some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully, “I must ’a’ left ’em down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.”

Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick. I’m about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the sink and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she said kindly as she passed him in the doorway.

“No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle William.

The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply.

Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the wind blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm glinting in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented look in his face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said comfortably. Juno came across and rubbed against him and he stooped to pet her. Then he went into the bedroom and came out with a plan of the new house. He spread it on the table and sat down, studying it with pleased, shrewd smile. The clock ticked and Juno purred into the stillness and a little breeze came in the window, clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and looked at the clock. His mouth remained open a little and he went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s if she o’t to be back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his glasses and adjusted them, and took a long look.

A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a large man, with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up there putty good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully. “You can’t hurry on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and paused to take breath, looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful on his toes,” said Uncle William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip over and spill suthin’.... I do ’no’ who he is.”

The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his hat, and his bald head shone in the sun.

Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen, benignant eye.

“Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held out a round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.”

Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man. “I don’t seem to remember your being here before?” he said.

“No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or two.” He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and rocks. “You have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-out voice that gave the words no color.

Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in, sir?”

The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far when I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead.

“You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William.

“From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”

“I know Andy,” said Uncle William. “Set down, sir.”

They sat down and looked at each other. “I was going through—” said the man, “up the Lakes and I thought I’d stop off and look around—It’s pleasant country about here.”

“Yes, it’s pleasant,” said Uncle William.

“Not much business doing, I suppose,” said the man.

“Fishing,” said Uncle William, “—mostly.”

“There’s some kind of building going on, I see—further up.” He moved the round hand.

“That’s my friend—Benjamin Bodet,” said Uncle William. His head gave a little lift. “He’s going to have nineteen rooms—not countin’ the gal’ry.” He laid his hand affectionately on the blueprint spread on the table beside him.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see—Seems to be quite a house,” he said affably, “I was talking with the contractor this morning—a man by the name of Manning—a very intelligent man,” he added kindly.

“His name’s Manning,” assented Uncle William.

The man’s eye strayed to the window. “Your friend must have considerable land with his place—I should think?” He spoke casually.

Uncle William sat up a little. “He’s got enough to set his house on,” he said dryly.

The man’s eyes held no rebuff. They dwelt on Uncle William kindly. “I am interested in the region—” he admitted, “I might buy a little—a small piece—if I found something I liked.”

Uncle William looked him over. “I don’t believe you will,” he said, “—not anything to suit you.... I’ve bought most of it myself,” he added.

The stranger looked at him—and then out of the window. “You don’t own all of it—?” He gave a little wave of the round hand at the moor and sky and rocks.

Uncle William nodded, with a pleased smile. “I bought it all—fo’-five years ago,” he said.

The man’s mouth was very mild. “You bought it for investment, I suppose? You put money into it—”

“Well,” said Uncle William, “suthin’ like that, perhaps. I put in all I could scrape up. Some I had—and some I just wished I’d had.”

“I see—? What would you take for it?—How much did you say you owned?” He bent toward the window.

“‘Bout a mile,” said Uncle William.

The head withdrew itself. “A mile—! You hoped it would rise, I suppose?”

“Well—I was more afraid someone ’d be coming along and setting on it,” said Uncle William.

“You could sell the whole?”

Uncle William shook his head.

“I shouldn’t care—so much—for a part of it,” said the man thoughtfully, “But I might make you an offer—”

“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Uncle William, “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—there ain’t money enough in this country—nor any other—to buy that land!” Uncle William sat up.

The other man shook his head. “Land values are skittish things,” he said. “It’s good judgment to look ahead a little.”

“That’s where I’m lookin’,” said Uncle William.

“This Bodet—” said the other smoothly, “whom did he buy of?”

Uncle William smiled. “I give him his piece—He’s a friend of mine.”

“I see.” The man got to his feet, adjusting his weight nicely.

“Well, think it over, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over on my way back from the Lakes and—” His hand advanced a little.

Uncle William’s gaze did not take it in. He was moving toward the door—and the man moved with him—his light, smooth steps hearing him along. “Good day, sir,” said Uncle William.

“Good morning, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over—on my way back.” He moved easily off up the road and Uncle William stood watching him.

“There’s Benjy now,” said Uncle William.

The two men stopped in the road and talked a few minutes. The fat man moved his hand and Bodet nodded once or twice.

Uncle William watched them a little anxiously. Then he went in and gathered up the plan. When he came ont Benjamin was approaching with quick, long strides.

“I’m coming right along, Benjy,” said Uncle William, “I was most ready—a man come along and hindered me a little—”

“Who is he?” said Bodet.

“His name is Carter—I reckon he’s real-estate,” said Uncle William.

“I ’reckon’ he is—Maiming told me and I came right down. What did he offer you?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly offer—I kind o’ held him off. But I guess he ’d ’a’ gone high—” Uncle William’s mouth closed in a happy smile. “‘Tis a nice island. I don’t wonder ’t folks want to come to it—But they can’t,” he added gently, “The’ ain’t room.

“I ’most hope he won’t see Andy,” he added after a minute, “Andy’s got a little piece—down to the east there—kind of out of sight, you know, that I didn’t buy.”

“I bought that piece last week,” said Bodet.

“You did!—How ’d you come to get it, Benjy?”

“The same way you got yours, I guess. I offered him a little more than he would stand.”

Uncle William smiled.... “And I suppose likely this man ’ll go higher ’n you did?”

“I suppose he will.”

Uncle William chuckled. “Poor Andy!”

“He’s ready to buy anything in sight you know,” said Bodet restlessly.

“The’ ain’t very much in sight, is there?” said Uncle William, “—except what I own.” He cast a proud eye over his acres.

“I’ve been thinking, William—”

Bodet looked at him keenly, “why don’t you turn it over to me—the whole of it? I told you I’d give you twenty thousand,—I’ll give you thirty—more if you say so—and you can live on it just the same?”

Uncle William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Benjy. I reckon the Lord cal’lated I’d buy up a mile—so’s to keep it from being cut up in little fiddling bits—and I guess I’ve got to hold on to it. I’d like to have thirty thousand,” he said reflectively, “The’s two-three little things I could do with thirty thousand—!”

Bodet smiled. “You ought to have it—whether you deed me the land or not—I have just as much good of it as you do.”

“Yes, you enjoy it—some,” admitted William.

“Well—I’m going to hand over the interest to you—pay your living—if you ’ll let me?” He looked at Uncle William curiously. There were new regions in Uncle William, perhaps—at least the thirty-thousand-dollar region was unexplored as yet.

Uncle William surveyed the offer with impartial eye. “You can pay my livin’ if you want to, Benjy—I’ve gen ’lly paid it myself, but I’d just as lives you did, if you want to—or I’d pay yours.”

XVI

ANDY was subdued after the real-estate man’s visit. “You and Benjy might sell me back some,” he suggested. He was sitting in Uncle William’s door, looking out over the moor. Uncle William was busy inside.

He came and stood in the doorway, his spectacles on his forehead, and looked at the landscape. “What ’d you do with it, Andy—if we give it back to you?” he asked.

“I’d sell it to that Carter man—quick as scat—’fore he changed his mind.”

Uncle William looked down at him. Then he looked at the moor.

“It’s val’able property,” said Andy.

“I do’ ’no’ as I know what val’able property is.” Uncle William’s eyes rested fondly on the moor, with its rocks and tufted growth and the clear, free line of sky.

“Val’able property?” said Andy. He gazed about him a little. “Val’able property’s suthin’ you’ve got that somebody else wants and ’ll pay money for—right off—That’s what I call val’able property.”

The clouds were riding up the horizon—the breeze from the moor blew in and the cloud shadows sailed across. Uncle William lifted his face a little. “Seems to me anything’s val’able ’t you kind o’ love and take comfort with,” he said slowly.

Andy grunted. “Guess I’ll go ’long up the road,” he said.

“Up to Benjy’s?” Uncle William looked at him wistfully. “I told Benjy I was coming up,” he said, “But it’s kind o’ late—” He looked at the sun, “and it’s warm, too.”

Andy made no reply.

“I reckon I’ll go ’long with you,” said Uncle William—“You wait a minute whilst I get my plans.”

They went up the road together in the clear light, the sun shining hot on their backs. The little breeze had died out and the clouds were drifting toward the horizon. Uncle William glanced wistfully at a big rock by the roadside. “We might set down a spell,” he suggested. He moved toward the rock. “I’ve been stirring since daylight,” he said, “It don’t seem quite right to keep goin’ every minute so. Benjy’s a pretty active man—for his years,” he added. He seated himself on the rock and stretched his great legs in the sun—He drew a long breath. “I do take a sight o’ comfort—not doin’ things,” he said. “Set down, Andy.” He patted the rock beside him.

Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.

“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”

Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said glumly.

“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly. “Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me, too.” His eye traveled back to the little house perched comfortably on its rocks.

Andy’s face held no comment.

Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—”

“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.

“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.”

Andy cast a scornful eye at him. But his face, set toward the horizon line, was non-committal.

“I can see it in Benjy plainer ’n I can in me,” went on Uncle William, “how it acts—wanting things jest so—and kind o’ dancing all round if you can’t have ’em.... I reckon that’s what marryin ’s for—to kind o’ steady ye like—ballast, you know. You can’t ride quite so high, maybe, but you can steer better...”

“Somebody’.l steer,” said Andy.

Uncle William cast the flick of a smile at him. “Well, you wouldn’t want two captains, Andy—not on the same boat, would ye? That’s what makes all the trouble, I reckon—” he went on thoughtfully, “wantin’ to go two ways to once. Seems ’f folks didn’t know what they got married for—some of ’em.”

“Well, I do ’no’,” said Andy without enthusiasm.

Uncle William looked at him with a quiet smile. “You wouldn’t want to get a divorce, would you, Andy?”

“Lord, no!” said Andy.

Uncle William’s smile grew deeper. “I reckoned you ’d feel that way—Seems ’f the rivets all kind o’ loosen up—when folks talk about separatin’ and divorce and so on—things get kind o’ shackly-like and wobble some.”

Andy grinned. “They don’t wobble down to our house. I’d like to see Harriet wobblin’ a minute—for once.”

“No, Harr’et’s firm,” said Uncle William. “An’ I guess you really like it better that way.” He spoke encouragingly.

“You have to settle down to it when you’re married,” went on Uncle William, “settle down comfortable-like—find the easy spots and kind o’ make for ’em. It’s like the weather, I reckon—you expect some weather—rain and thunder and so on.” Uncle William’s gaze rested contentedly on the cloudless, far-reaching sky.... “We ’d grumble a little, I guess—any way you ’d fix it.... But we wouldn’t want biling-hot sunshine all the time. Why, climates where they have that kind o’ weather—” Uncle William sat up, looking about him, “It’s terrible tryin’—dust and fleas and scorpions—and it’s dreadful dull living, too.... I like a good deal of weather myself. It keeps things movin’—suthin’ to pay attention to.”

“What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” demanded Andy, peering towards something blue that stuck up over the edge of William’s pocket.

Uncle William’s hand reached down to it—“That’s the plans,” he said, “for Benjy’s house. It’s the plans—as far as he’s got,” he added conscientiously.

Andy’s eye turned away—grudging.

Uncle William drew out the blue paper and looked at it fondly. “I’m helping Benjy decide what he wants—from time to time.” He spread out the paper on his knee.

Andy turned his back and looked out to sea—sideways.

“Want to see ’em, Andy?” asked Uncle William.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s a good place to see ’em.” Uncle William glanced at the flat rock. He laid down the blue paper and smoothed the curly edges with big, careful fingers.

“You get two-three stones, Andy—to anchor ’em down—”

Andy got up with an indifferent air and wandered off, gathering in a handful of small rocks.

“That’s good—put one of ’em here—and one here—and here. That’s good!” Uncle William leaned back and looked at it with simple delight.

Andy’s air was detached.

Uncle William glanced at him. His gaze softened. “This is Benjy’s room,” he said. His finger followed a white dotted line on the paper.

Andy bent a little.

“An’ here the lib’ry—and the gallery—”

“The what?” Andy ducked a little toward the plan.

“That’s the gallery—didn’t I tell ye, Andy?”

“No.” Andy’s mouth was open at it.

“It’s for picters, you know, and marble things—kind o’ standing round.”

“Huh!” The mouth closed.

“It ’ll be quite nice, I reckon—when it’s done. I can see he sets store by it—” Uncle William’s finger hovered dubiously about the spot. “An’ this part here—all this wing—is for Sergia and him—Alan—”

“They ain’t here,” said Andy.

“But they’re going to be here sometime,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “It ’ll be quite a fam’ly then.” He gazed at the blue paper fondly. “I do like a fam’ly—seems kind o’ foolish to build a house and not have a fam’ly.”

Andy said nothing. His eye was studying a corner of the plan. “What’s that?” he demanded.

Uncle William bent to it. He lifted his face, beaming. “‘W’s room’—That’s my room,” he said.

Andy glared at it. “You going to live there—with him!”

“Why, no, Andy—not just live there—It’s a kind o’ place for me to stay nights, you know—if I get caught up there—stormy weather?” Uncle William looked at him a little anxiously.

Andy got up. “I’ve got to go ’long,” he said.

Uncle William’s face held him sympathetically. “I was goin’ to show you the rest of the plans,” he said.

“I don’t care about ’em,” said Andy. He moved away.

Uncle William’s big fingers found a stub of pencil in his pocket and brought it out. “I was thinking, Andy—” he said slowly.

Andy turned back—a little.

“I was wondering if you ’d mind havin’ the same room as me—up to Benjy’s?”

“I don’t want no room,” said Andy.

“I couldn’t stay away nights.” He looked at the paper with gloomy eye.

Uncle William wet the pencil with careful tongue and bent over the paper. His fingers traced a large, scrawling A. “There!” He leaned back, looking at it with satisfied gaze. “‘A and W’s room’—looks good, don’t it!” His face beamed on Andy.

The gloom relaxed a little. “It don’t mean nothing,” said Andy.

“Well, I do’ ’no’,” said Uncle William. “It sounds nice, and when things sound nice, seems ’s if they must mean suthin’—down underneath somewheres.”

“Huh!” said Andy.

XVII

THE real-estate man and Andy were out behind the barn. There was a glimpse of the harbor in the distance, and behind them the moor rose to the horizon.

The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,” he said casually.

“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.

A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.

The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice, “and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”

“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here ’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.

The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”

“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.

“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice was smooth, and patient.

Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.

“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”

“That’s Gruchy’s,” said Andy quickly, “He wants to move off the Island.”

“He said he wanted to move—that’s the name—Gruchy—I’d forgotten.” The small eyes looked off at the distant glint of water. “In some ways I like that place better than this,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s on the shore—”

“I’ve got a right of way,” said Andy.

“To the shore!” The man’s eyes looked at him an instant, and a little light flicked in them, and was gone.

“It’s down here,” said Andy. He moved over to the right. “Here’s my entrance—and it runs from here straight across to the shore. We never measured it off—I al’ays cut across anywheres I want to. But it’s in the deed—and anybody ’t buys the land ’ll have it.” He looked at the other shrewdly.

“I see—” The real estate man’s gaze followed the right of way across Uncle William’s moor. “I see—Well, of course, that makes a difference—a little difference. It would be foolish to buy on an island and not have access to the shore—I presume you could buy the Gruchy place,” he suggested.

“That’s what I was thinking of,” said Andy, “—unless William wanted to give me a little piece.” His gloomy eyes rested, almost fondly, on the big moor that stretched away under its piled-up clouds.

“Better for business down in the village, I should think,” said the man briskly.

“Yes, it’s better for business,” admitted Andy. “Only I’ve got kind of used to it up here.” His eye sought the house. “I was born in there, you know—and my father lived there and my grandfather.”

The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and drew it out, slowly.

Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated.

The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some place I didn’t fancy. I’m made like that.” He expanded a little. “Now, value for value, Gruchy’s place is worth twice what yours is—and I know it.” He looked at him narrowly. “But I’m going to offer you a thousand dollars—five hundred down and five hundred the first of the month—if you want to close now.” He fingered the bills a little.

Andy’s eyes grew round. “I’ll have to ask Harr’et,” he said. “She ain’t very well.” He glanced toward a darkened window at the rear of the house—“She’s havin’ neuralgia—off and on—I wouldn’t want to ask her when she has it. She has a bad spell today.” He shook his head.

The other looked at him sympathetically. “I have to go to-night—and I couldn’t be sure I’d want to offer a thousand in the morning—even if I stayed—not if I came across something I like better.” He returned the bills decisively to his pocket.

Andy’s glance followed them. “I don’t really need to ask her.” His glance flickered. “She’s said, time and again, she ’d be glad if I’d sell. She comes from northeast of Digby. I reckon she ’d like to go back.”

“Digby’s a fine place,” said the man. “Well, good day, Mr. Halloran. I’m glad to have met you.” He held out a round hand.

Andy took it without enthusiasm. “I do ’no’ but I might as well sell,” he said feebly.

The other waved it away. “Don’t think of it—not without your wife’s consent—not if you’re accustomed to doing what she tells you.”

“I ain’t,” said Andy indignantly.

“Of course not—I only meant that you ’d be better satisfied—”

“I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and the place is yours.”

The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to Andy with careless gesture.

Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them with half-open mouth and grinned a little.

“Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here, please.”

Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.

“That’s good!” The real-estate man beamed on him benignantly. “Tomorrow we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You ’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction, and Andy stared after him, entranced.

“Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?”

“I don’t have to,” blurted Andy.

“All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight.

When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house.

XVIII

THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed.

“Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a little grimly.

“I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him in silence.

“I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William. “Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me. He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d been putty foolish,” he added slowly.

“Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He waved his hand up over the great cliffs.

Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a hotel—exactly—”

Happy Island: A New "Uncle William" Story

HAPPY ISLAND

A New “Uncle William” Story

By Jennette Lee

New York The Century Co.

1911

TO

GERALD STANLEY LEE

HAPPY ISLAND

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