UNCLE WILLIAM and Benjy had been away all day—up at the new house—and Andy’s wife had sent dinner to them.... They came home in the dusk, hungry and tired. “Harr’et’s cooking ’do ’t to be e’t hot,” said Uncle William. He looked up at his own house. “Hello! somebody’s visitin’ us.”

Benjy’s eye lighted. A glow from the red room shone in the dusk. “It’s the new girl,” he said. They quickened their pace a little.

Uncle William went ahead and opened the door. The little room was full of warm light and the pleasant smell of cooking. By the stove knelt a young girl, her hand on the oven door. She looked up as they came in and closed the door carefully. Then she got to her feet—a little smile on her face. “I’ve come, Mr. Benslow,” she said.

“We’re glad to see you,” said Uncle William heartily. He glanced at the table. “‘D you find dishes enough for a meal?”

A little dimple in her cheek came out, and ran away. “I washed a few,” she replied.

Uncle William’s eye ran along the shelf over the sink. “You’ve done ’em all!”

“Not quite—I put some of them outside by the door—pots and kettles and pans—”

“That’s what I fell over,” said Uncle William, “I gen’ally keep ’em under the sink—out o’ sight—kind of—?” He looked at her.

“I saw where you kept them.” She had dear, searching eyes and quick little movements that ran ahead of her and did things for her. “Supper is ready,” she said. “The biscuit are just right.” She took the biscuit from the oven and set chairs for them at the table and flitted about, with quick, soft steps. Juno, on her lounge, huddled herself a little and turned her halfshut eyes on the swish of skirts. By and by she got down and came over to Uncle William.

He fed her a bit of fish and she returned to her lounge, closing her eyes. “She knows suthin’ ’s happened,” said Uncle William, “Her mind’s going round and round.”

Bodet smiled. “She looks placid enough.”

“You can’t tell that way,” said Uncle William. “Women ain’t like men-folks—not just like ’em. They ’ll smile and look polite and fix their faces—and then, all of a sudden, things ’ll happen.”

A little laugh bubbled over from the sink.

Uncle William turned in his chair and looked at her. He adjusted his glasses and looked again. “‘D you say anything, Celia?”

“No, sir—I just thought it was kind of funny about women—”

“So ’tis,” said Uncle William, “It’s funny’s anything I know—the way women be. I take a sight o’ comfort thinkin’ about women and the way they be.”

“Yes, sir—would you like some more tea?”

Uncle William waved it away—“Not another mite. We’ve had a good supper.” He pushed back from the table. “Now, we ’ll help you clear up a little—” He looked about him.

“I don’t want anybody to touch my dishes,” she said promptly.

Uncle William looked at her over his glasses. “I was going to show you where things be,” he said.

“I know where everything is.’.rdquo; The little smile played about her lips. “And I don’t need any help.” She whisked the cloth from the table and bore it away.

Uncle William’s eye followed her.

“There’s a letter for you.” She took it from behind the dock and laid it on the table.

Uncle William took it up with slow fingers. “I gen’ally read my letters first thing,” he said reflectively.

“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.”

Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at the postmark.

“I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading bits from the letter.

The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door.

Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see about getting ready to go with you.”

“I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.”

“The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern.

“I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path over the cliff.

Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.”

“She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark.

“She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!”

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