BODET had taken largely to sitting about on nail-kegs, listening to the men talk and joining in now and then.... The little fretted look had left his eyes, and his voice when he spoke had a quiet note.

“You’re doin’ fine, Benjy!” Uncle William confided to him one morning. It was the week before Christmas. A fire had been built in the big living-room and the men had gathered about it, talking and laughing and thawing out. A fierce wind from the east was blowing and fine sleet drove against the windows. The room had a homelike sense—shut in from the storm.

“It’s a great thing to have building goin’ on, a day like this—when the’s a big storm from the east,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “If ’tw’an’t for the building, you might not have a soul in to see you all day.” He glanced complacently at the group about the fire.

“Costs me twelve-fifty a day,” said Bodet dryly.

“Wuth it, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, “I do’ ’no’ what money’s for if ye can’t be happy with it....” He glanced affectionately at the quiet face opposite him. “You’re getting happy every day, Benjy.... I do’ ’no’s I ever see anybody get along as fast as you do—gettin’ happy.”

The tall man laughed out. “It’s a choice between that and everlasting misery—on your old Island,” he said.

“Yes, I guess ’tis.” Uncle William’s voice was contented.

The group about the fire broke up and moved off. Uncle William’s eye followed them—“They’re going to work now. You ’ll get quite a piece done today—” He came back to the fire. “I was thinking—how ’d it do to have dinner up here!” He was looking about the room.

Bodet’s glance followed his—“Who ’ll cook it?” he said.

“We could send for Celia,” said Uncle William. “Gunnion’s team’s out in the shed—he didn’t unhitch. We could send down, easy enough, and fetch her up—dinner and all—and she could cook it out in your kitchen—” Uncle William beamed. “You ’d like that, wouldn’t ye?”

“It’s not a bad idea—I’ll tell Gunnion to drive down and get her.”

Uncle William laid a hand on his arm. “I reckon you ’d better let George fetch her up,” he said.

“I can’t spare him,” said Bodet decisively. “Gunnion can drive back and forth all day if he wants to—” Uncle William got in his way, “I guess you better let George go, Benjy—he won’t be no time driving down there and back.”

With a little smile, Bodet yielded the point and Uncle William rolled off to find George Manning and send him out into the storm.

“You tell her to wrap up good,” he called into the sleet... “and you see she’s tucked in, George, and tell her to bring plenty of salt and pep-p-er.” The last word was whirled apart by wind, and Uncle William retired into the house, a deep smile on his face.

Within an hour Celia was there, little beading moisture on the bobbing curls, and the pink in her cheeks like a rose—the kind that grows wild and red among the rocks. Uncle William looked at her approvingly. “Did you good to get out a spell, didn’t it?” he said kindly.

“I didn’t know you were worrying about my health—” She shook the little curls. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Well, I wa ’n’t—not altogether,” Uncle William’s face was placid, “—but I wouldn’t ’a’ wanted you to get cold—I guess George tucked you in pretty good—”

“I tucked myself in,” she said. “Have you got a fire made for me?”

“Everything’s all ready, Celia.” Uncle William led her out to the tiny kitchen, tiled in white and fitted with all the contrivances for skill and swiftness. She stood looking about her—the little color in her face. “Well, this is a kitchen!” she said. She drew a deep breath.

Uncle William chuckled. “I knew you ’d like it. You see you can stand right here in the middle and throw things. ’Twouldn’t suit me so well—” he said reflectively. “I like to roll around more—but this is about right for you, Celia.” He looked at her.

“Just right,” she said emphatically—“But there isn’t room for two—is there?” She looked at him and he retired, chuckling, while she examined the range, taking off lids and peeking into the oven.... George Manning appeared in the doorway. “Uncle William told me to ask you if there’s anything you want?” he said, looking about the shining little room.

Celia whisked her apron from the basket and put it on. “You can tell him there isn’t a thing I need—except to be left alone,” she added severely, “and I just told him that.”

The young man withdrew—a heavy color rising in his face.

“She didn’t want anything, did she?” said Uncle William casually.

“No.” Manning took up his plane and attacked a piece of board screwed to the bench. Uncle William watched the long, even lunge of the plane and the set of the square shoulders. He moved discreetly away.

In her kitchen, Celia spread the contents of the basket on the white shelf, and settled to her work—like a bird to its nest.... Out in the rooms beyond—amid the swirl of planes and the smell of paint and shavings and clean, fresh wood, they heard a voice singing softly to itself... and against the windows the sleet dashed itself and broke, and the great storm from the east gathered. By and by Uncle William looked into the kitchen. “You couldn’t just go out in the other room, Celia, and fetch me my coat, could ye?” He was standing in his shirt sleeves, looking at her kindly.

She glanced up from her work and paused, “No, Mr. Benslow, I couldn’t—and I do wish you ’d stop acting so.... You’re just—ridiculous!” She lifted a pie and whisked it into the oven and Uncle William retired.

He went for his coat himself and put it on, shrugging his great shoulders comfortably down into it—“If they want to act like that, they ’ll have to get along best way they can,” he muttered to himself.

His face resumed its calm and he strolled from room to room, giving advice and enjoying life. “I do like a big, comfortable storm like this,” he said, standing at the window and looking out across the black-stretched harbor. “Everything snug down there,” he waved his hand to t............