THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor.

The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.

“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his feet down.

The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”

“It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever. You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”

A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard, you know?”

“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.

“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin and towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She motioned him off.

Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et has ’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”

The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr. Bodet coming?”

“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick now.” He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl stood twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about the shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came and went.

“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in. His face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up straight.

The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I guess.” She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he doesn’t come pretty quick,” she said.

“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.

“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”

“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean George Manning, I guess.”

“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.”

Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove—that steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it tenderly. Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet—You go show him where to wash—while I take up the dumplings—” She lifted the kettle, and Uncle William went meekly to the door. “You wash up out here, Benjy,” said Uncle William. He waved his hand at the toilet articles ranged on the bench by the door—“It’s a nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your towel.... She ’ll let us come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.

Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.

Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where folks can’t see you doing things so.”

“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the landscape.

Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he said.

Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.

“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.

While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out for their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the door and hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted in the door—but it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it off.

Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a canary around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—She likes doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks around you that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever seen the way Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”

Bodet shook his head.

Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et don’t really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at the bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean, you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat looking before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—about women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that makes me feel happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that way a-purpose—kind o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could bend easy—and stay kind o’ curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and watched ’em in meetin’, a good many times, when they didn’t know I was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’ comfort with ’em.”

Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”

Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and returned to William.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—Hello!—There’s George!”

They pushed back from the table and went outside.

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