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.”