THE day was alive—pink dawn, moving waves, little tingling breaths of salt, and fresh, crisp winds. Celia, up in the little house, was singing bits of song, peering into closets and out, brushing and scrubbing and smiling, and running to and fro.... Uncle William, out on the big rock near the house, turned his head and listened to the flurry going on inside.... There was a pause and a quick exclamation—and silence. Through the open door he could see the curly head bent over an old plate. She was standing on a chair and had reached the plate down from the top shelf. Uncle William’s face fell a little. She jumped down from the chair and came toward the door, holding it at arm’s length. “Look at that!” she said.

Uncle William looked. “That’s my boot-grease,” he said a little wistfully. “I put it up there—kind o’ out of your way, Celia.”

She set it down hard on the rock. “I’ll make you some fresh—when I get to it.” She disappeared in the door, and Uncle William looked at the plate. He half got up and reached out to it—“The’s suthin’ about real old grease—” he murmured softly. He took up the plate and looked at it—and looked around him—at the sky and moor and sea.... “I do’ ’no’ where I’d put it ’t she wouldn’t find it,” he said regretfully. He set the plate down on the rock and returned to his harbor. A light wind touched the water and the little boats skimmed and shook out sail. Down on the beach George Manning was bending over his dory, stowing away nets. The other men on the beach went to and fro, and scraps of talk and laughter floated up. Uncle William leaned over, scanning the scene with happy eye—“When you goin’ out, Georgie?” he called down.

The young man lifted his head and made a hollow of his hands—“Waiting for Steve,” he called up.

“He goin’ out with ye?”

The young man nodded and pointed to a figure loping down over the rocks.

The figure joined him and stood by him. The two men were talking and scanning the sky. Uncle William gazed over their heads—out to the clear horizon.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. He looked a little wistfully at the Jennie rocking below.

Celia came to the door, “You going out today, Mr. Benslow?”

Uncle William shook his head and looked at the sky.

“It’s a good day,” said Celia.

“Best kind o’ day—” assented Uncle William. He looked again at the heavens. Little scallops—rays of clouds, shot athwart it.

“I’d go if I was you,” said Celia.

“I thought mebbe I’d stay and help Benjy—byme-by. George Manning’s going out.” The corner of his eye sought her face.

It dimpled a little. “He told me he was going out—when he brought the paper yesterday,” she said. “It’s behind the clock—when you want it,” she added.

“I don’t want it—not now,” said Uncle William absently.

Celia returned to her work and Uncle William was left in the clear, open peace of the morning. Along the horizon the boats crawled back and forth, and down on the beach the clutter and hurry of men and oars came up, fresh. He bent forward and watched it all—his big, round face full of sympathy and happy comment....

“Much as ever George ’ll make out to set this morning,” he said. His eye scanned the distant boats that crept along the horizon with cautious tread. “He ought to ’a’ known Steve Burton ’d be late. Steve ’d miss his own funeral—if they ’d let him.” Uncle William chuckled..... The great, dark boat had lifted sail and was moving a little, feeling her way to meet the mysterious power that waited somewhere out in the open—Uncle William watched her swing to the wind and lift her wings....

He stepped to the door—“Oh, Celia—Want to see suthin’ pretty?”

The girl went to the window and looked out. She gazed at the sky, and swept the horizon with a look. “Anything different from usual?” she said. Her eye kept away from the harbor.

Uncle William came and stood behind her, looking down. “Just look down there a minute, Celia.” He took the curly head in his hands and bent it gently.

She gazed at the boat—pacing slowly with the deepening wind—and her eyes glinted a little.

“Looks nice, don’t it?” said Uncle William.

She nodded, her fingers on her apron traveling with absent, futile touch. “I always like to see boats start off,” she said happily.... “Look, how she t............