C ELIA looked up from her work. “Did you have good luck?”

“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should think.” He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the beach. “I picked out some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully, “I must ’a’ left ’em down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.”

Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick. I’m about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the sink and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she said kindly as she passed him in the doorway.

“No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle William.

The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply.

Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the wind blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm glinting in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented look in his face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said comfortably. Juno came across and rubbed against him and he stooped to pet her. Then he went into the bedroom and came out with a plan of the new house. He spread it on the table and sat down, studying it with pleased, shrewd smile. The clock ticked and Juno purred into the stillness and a little breeze came in the window, clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and looked at the clock. His mouth remained open a little and he went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s if she o’t to be back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his glasses and adjusted them, and took a long look.

A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a large man, with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up there putty good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully. “You can’t hurry on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and paused to take breath, looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful on his toes,” said Uncle William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip over and spill suthin’.... I do ’no’ who he is.”

The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his hat, and his bald head shone in the sun.

Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen, benignant eye.

“Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held out a round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.”

Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man. “I don’t seem to remember your being here before?” he said.

“No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or two.” He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and rocks. “You have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-out voice that gave the words no color.

Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in, sir?”

The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far when I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead.

“You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William.

“From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”

“I know Andy,” said Uncle William. “Set down, sir.”

They sat down and looked at each other. “I was going through—” said the man, “up the Lakes and I thought I’d stop off and look around—It’s pleasant country about here.”

“Yes, it’s pleasant,” said Uncle William.

“Not much business doing, I suppose,” said the man.

“Fishing,” said Uncle William, “—mostly.”

“There’s some kind of building going on, I see—further up.” He moved the round hand.

“That’s my friend—Benjamin Bodet,” said Uncle William. His head gave a little lift. “He’s going to have nineteen rooms—not countin’ the gal’ry.” He laid his hand affectionately on the blueprint spread on the table beside him.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see—Seems to be quite a house,” he said affably, “I was talking with the contractor this morning—a man by the name of Manning—a very intelligent man,” he added kindly.

“His name’s Manning,” assented Uncle William.

The man’s eye strayed to the window. “Your friend must have considerable land with his place—I should think?” He spoke casually.

Uncle William sat up a little. “He’s got enough to set his house on,” he said dryly.

The man’s eyes held no rebuff. They dwelt on Uncle William kindly. “I am interested in the region—” he admitted, “I might buy a little—a small piece—if I found something I liked.”

Uncle William looked him over. “I don’t believe you will,” he said, “—not anything to suit you.... I’ve bought most of it myself,” he added.

The stranger looked at him—and then out of the window. “You don’t own all of it—?” He gave a little wave of the round hand at the moor and sky and rocks.

Uncle William nodded, with a pleased smile. “I bought it all—fo’-five years ago,” he said.

The man’s mouth was very mild. “You bought it for investment, I suppose? You put money into it—”

“Well,” said Uncle William, “suthin’ like that, perhaps. I put in all I could scrape up. Some I had—and some I just wished I’d had.”

“I see—? What would you take for it?—How much did you say you owned?” He bent toward the window.

“‘Bout a mile,” said Uncle William.

The head withdrew itself. “A mile—! You hoped it would rise, I suppose?”

“Well—I was more afraid someone ’d be coming along and setting on it,” said Uncle William.

“You could sell the whole?”

Uncle William shook his head.

“I shouldn’t care—so much—for a part of it,” said the man thoughtfully, “But I might make you an offer—”

“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Uncle William, “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—there ain’t money enough in this country—nor any other—to buy that land!” Uncle William sat up.

The other man shook his head. “Land values are skittish things,” he said. “It’s good judgment to look ahead a little.”

“That’s where I’m lookin’,” said Uncle William.

“This Bodet—” said the other smoothly, “whom did he buy of?”

Uncle William smiled. “I give him his piece—He’s a friend of mine.”

“I see.” The man got to his feet, adjusting his weight nicely.

“Well, think it over, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over on my way back from the Lakes and—” His hand advanced a little.

Uncle William’s gaze did not take it in. He was moving toward the door—and the man moved with him—his light, smooth steps hearing him along. “Good day, sir,” said Uncle William.

“Good morning, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over—on my way back.” He moved easily off up the road and Uncle William stood watching him.

“There’s Benjy now,” said Uncle William.

The two men stopped in the road and talked a few minutes. The fat man moved his hand and Bodet nodded once or twice.

Uncle William watched them a little anxiously. Then he went in and gathered up the plan. When he came ont Benjamin was approaching with quick, long strides.

“I’m coming right along, Benjy,” said Uncle William, “I was most ready—a man come along and hindered me a little—”

“Who is he?” said Bodet.

“His name is Carter—I reckon he’s real-estate,” said Uncle William.

“I ’reckon’ he is—Maiming told me and I came right down. What did he offer you?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly offer—I kind o’ held him off. But I guess he ’d ’a’ gone high—” Uncle William’s mouth closed in a happy smile. “‘Tis a nice island. I don’t wonder ’t folks want to come to it—But they can’t,” he added gently, “The’ ain’t room.

“I ’most hope he won’t see Andy,” he added after a minute, “Andy’s got a little piece—down to the east there—kind of out of sight, you know, that I didn’t buy.”

“I bought that piece last week,” said Bodet.

“You did!—How ’d you come to get it, Benjy?”

“The same way you got yours, I guess. I offered him a little more than he would stand.”

Uncle William smiled.... “And I suppose likely this man ’ll go higher ’n you did?”

“I suppose he will.”

Uncle William chuckled. “Poor Andy!”

“He’s ready to buy anything in sight you know,” said Bodet restlessly.

“The’ ain’t very much in sight, is there?” said Uncle William, “—except what I own.” He cast a proud eye over his acres.

“I’ve been thinking, William—”

Bodet looked at him keenly, “why don’t you turn it over to me—the whole of it? I told you I’d give you twenty thousand,—I’ll give you thirty—more if you say so—and you can live on it just the same?”

Uncle William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Benjy. I reckon the Lord cal’lated I’d buy up a mile—so’s to keep it from being cut up in little fiddling bits—and I guess I’ve got to hold on to it. I’d like to have thirty thousand,” he said reflectively, “The’s two-three little things I could do with thirty thousand—!”

Bodet smiled. “You ought to have it—whether you deed me the land or not—I have just as much good of it as you do.”

“Yes, you enjoy it—some,” admitted William.

“Well—I’m going to hand over the interest to you—pay your living—if you ’ll let me?” He looked at Uncle William curiously. There were new regions in Uncle William, perhaps—at least the thirty-thousand-dollar region was unexplored as yet.

Uncle William surveyed the offer with impartial eye. “You can pay my livin’ if you want to, Benjy—I’ve gen ’lly paid it myself, but I’d just as lives you did, if you want to—or I’d pay yours.”

---