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 ............