HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.

He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a putty early start.”

Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”

“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”

“You’re not going out?”

Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor.

Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”

“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”

Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.”

Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.

Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said.

“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly.

“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.

Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.

Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without me.”

“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.

Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He blew gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it whilst we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s two-three things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy. They’ve been always tagging me around since.” He settled a little more comfortably in his chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead, Benjy,” he said.

Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno jumped on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully up and down the grey back while the letter was being read.

A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be they? I can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she said?”

Bodet turned back and found the place.

“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to Vilna, taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will take the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the spring—going overland.’.

Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the whole thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific Isles.... Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?” He looked at him anxiously.

Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little. “Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to have a home for a little while again.”

“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it with shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He looked at him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like as not I’ll be putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”

“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was scanning the lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor beside him, looked up as if she would like to be invited.

Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped out into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.

The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great legs keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening to the little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full breaths of the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face cleared. The little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading of the letter disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little booming songs that began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—traveling along ahead....

On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and came out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory, folding it down in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern over the mound of net and gave a little running push and leaped in.... The oars in the thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded out in the night, and little phosphorescent gleams waked up along the water and ran in flocks behind him.

He rowed steadily out, his eyes on the stars. The night held a stillness—somewhere, through it, a voice might come. He held the boat, dipping the oars lightly and bending his head. He often waited—in the darkness or off on the moor.... Little sounds came—vague stirrings of quiet—and off a little way, the lights on the fishing boats bobbed at anchor. He dipped his oars and rowed again—long, restful pulls that drew on the strength of the night.... Alongside, in a minute, the stem of the Jennie loomed mistily and Uncle William scrambled aboard, fastening the dory and hanging his lantern to the mast—It threw its swaying light on the big figure as it moved about the boat. Over the eastern rim of hill the sky grew mysteriously thin and glowed—and a flood of light dropped on the harbor. The water darkened and the distant boats grew to shapes as the moon rose high, filling herself with light. Uncle William looked up. He put down the coil of rope he was stowing away and leaned back, looking at the clear, yellow ball riding over the hill. His eye traveled to the water and to the dim boats shaping themselves out of the dusk.... A contented smile held the big face.... He had been thinking of Sergia and Alan and his thoughts traveled again—following the track of the moon, out over the water, across the ocean—stretching to Russia and the far east.... Slowly the look grew in his face—a little wonder and a laugh. Then he sat up, looking about him. The filtering moonshine played on his face and he laughed—with low, quiet chuckles—and fell to work, giving the last touches to the boat—making things fast. He rowed back in slow silence. Along the beach, as he came near, little black shapes stood up and greeted him—lobster traps and barrels piled high, ends of dories, and boxes washed by the tide, and fantastic sprawls of net and seaweed. Uncle William stepped among them, with long, high step, and the smile still played on his face. Up on the cliff he could see the red glow of the window. Benjy might be up—might be awake.... Uncle William quickened his steps—

The man looked up with a satisfied, drowsy smile. The paper had dropped from his hand and his head was bent a little toward it. Uncle William nodded to him and hung up the lantern. “I’ve thought of something.”

“Have you?” Bodet sat up, yawning a light breath and feeling for his glasses. He put them on his nose and looked at William. “You were gone long enough to think,” he said.

“Yes—I was gone—quite a spell. I got to looking round,” said Uncle William. “Time gets away putty fast when you’re looking round and kind o’ thinkin’.” He chuckled again, with the big, kind smile that flooded his face. “What do you reckon made them want to go straight to Russia, Benjy?” He was looking at him shrewdly.

Bodet shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know—just a whim, perhaps—”

“Something nicer ’n a whim.... You ’d kind o’ like to think of it yourself—It makes things big somehow—big and kind o’ goin’ on forever-like—” His face was full of the glow now and the eyes behind the spectacles had a misty look—like the blue of the sea when the fog is traveling in.

Bodet got up and came across to him. “What is it, William!” he said gently.

“Just more folks on-the Island—” said Uncle William. “Little ones, you know—travelin’ round...; The’s suthin’ about it—I do’ ’no’ what ’t is, Benjy—but it makes you all kind o’ happy inside—thinking there’s goin’ to be more folks always, when you’re gone—living along in the same places and doin’ things.... I can kind o’ see ’em,” said Uncle William slowly, “—everywheres I go—there they be—plain as if I touched ’em. some of ’em—getting up in the morning and havin’ breakfast and goin’ out and looking at the sun and the rocks and the water and being happy—same as me—unhappy, too, some of the time—thinkin’ things ought to be different.... It makes it all seem big, don’t it, Benjy?” He reached out a hand.

The tall man took it. “So you think—?”

Uncle William nodded. “They ’ll be comin’ back some day—sailing into the harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one traveling with ’em. It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what the Lord made ’em that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little... but I don’t ever see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’ that kind o’ way they have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em without feelin’ real good somewheres inside. Everything breaks out all new—lights up, you know—’s if the fog had blown off suddenlike and you looked way out where the sun is.” Uncle William’s face held the glory of it all, but his voice had dropped a little.... He got up and went to the door and stepped into the night. Presently he reappeared and crossed over to the wood-box and looked in. “Guess I’ll bring in an armful of wood,” he said. “It might rain before morning.”

Benjy’s smile was very gentle as it followed him. “It can’t rain—a night like this, William.”

Uncle William returned to the door and Bodet followed him.... The moor was flooded with light—a magic world, hushed and waiting under its veil.... Uncle William’s eyes dwelt on it fondly. “I reckon I’ll bring in the wood,” he said. “Mebbe it won’t rain. But I kind o’ like to bring in wood when I’ve been thinkin’.” The great figure passed into the transparent night.

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