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.