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 right.”

Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?”

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.”

Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”

They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”

“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”

“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along yet—not quite a while yet.”

“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.

“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the bench—can’t we, George?”

“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned toward the door.

“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”

The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How do you do,” he said.

“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words and whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She looked down at her hands. Then she held out one of them.

The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little and laid it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.

She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket and set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim Gunnion’s team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the basket. “There’s your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—” She set the things on the table, at one side—“and here’s your tablecloth.” She blew the bits of shavings from the bench and spread a red cloth across its width.

Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere below them.

“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet impersonally.

“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.” She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s the salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took the lid from the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the pail,” she said. “You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m going now. You can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She stood in the door—and was gone.

Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young man was regarding him soberly.

“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’ was enough for three—easy.”

“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little, apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.

Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s a dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.

The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see Marshall—about the well.”

Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after dark, you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee—’bout the well.”

“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested Manning.

Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’ about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—”

“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”

“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.

“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.

“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.”

Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”

Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”

“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.”

Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”

Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”

He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”

Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in.

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