ANDY was subdued after the real-estate man’s visit. “You and Benjy might sell me back some,” he suggested. He was sitting in Uncle William’s door, looking out over the moor. Uncle William was busy inside.

He came and stood in the doorway, his spectacles on his forehead, and looked at the landscape. “What ’d you do with it, Andy—if we give it back to you?” he asked.

“I’d sell it to that Carter man—quick as scat—’fore he changed his mind.”

Uncle William looked down at him. Then he looked at the moor.

“It’s val’able property,” said Andy.

“I do’ ’no’ as I know what val’able property is.” Uncle William’s eyes rested fondly on the moor, with its rocks and tufted growth and the clear, free line of sky.

“Val’able property?” said Andy. He gazed about him a little. “Val’able property’s suthin’ you’ve got that somebody else wants and ’ll pay money for—right off—That’s what I call val’able property.”

The clouds were riding up the horizon—the breeze from the moor blew in and the cloud shadows sailed across. Uncle William lifted his face a little. “Seems to me anything’s val’able ’t you kind o’ love and take comfort with,” he said slowly.

Andy grunted. “Guess I’ll go ’long up the road,” he said.

“Up to Benjy’s?” Uncle William looked at him wistfully. “I told Benjy I was coming up,” he said, “But it’s kind o’ late—” He looked at the sun, “and it’s warm, too.”

Andy made no reply.

“I reckon I’ll go ’long with you,” said Uncle William—“You wait a minute whilst I get my plans.”

They went up the road together in the clear light, the sun shining hot on their backs. The little breeze had died out and the clouds were drifting toward the horizon. Uncle William glanced wistfully at a big rock by the roadside. “We might set down a spell,” he suggested. He moved toward the rock. “I’ve been stirring since daylight,” he said, “It don’t seem quite right to keep goin’ every minute so. Benjy’s a pretty active man—for his years,” he added. He seated himself on the rock and stretched his great legs in the sun—He drew a long breath. “I do take a sight o’ comfort—not doin’ things,” he said. “Set down, Andy.” He patted the rock beside him.

Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.

“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”

Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said glumly.

“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly. “Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me, too.” His eye traveled back to the little house perched comfortably on its rocks.

Andy’s face held no comment.

Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—”

“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.

“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.”

Andy cast a scornful eye at him. But his face, set toward the horizon line, was non-committal.

“I can see it in Benjy plainer ’n I can in me,” went on Uncle William, “how it acts—wanting things jest so—and kind o’ dancing all round if you can’t have ’em.... I reckon that’s what marryin ’s for—to kind o’ steady ye like—ballast, you know. You can’t ride quite so high, maybe, but you can steer better...”

“Somebody’.l steer,” said Andy.

Uncle William cast the flick of a smile at him. “Well, you wouldn’t want two captains, Andy—not on the same boat, would ye? That’s what makes all the trouble, I reckon—” he went on thoughtfully, “wantin’ to go two ways to once. Seems ’f folks didn’t know what they got married for—some of ’em.”

“Well, I do ’no’,” said Andy without enthusiasm.

Uncle William looked at him with a quiet smile. “You wouldn’t want to get a divorce, would you, Andy?”

“Lord, no!” said Andy.

Uncle William’s smile grew deeper. “I reckoned you ’d feel that way—Seems ’f the rivets all kind o’ loosen up—when folks talk about separatin’ and divorce and so on—things get kind o’ shackly-like and wobble some.”

Andy grinned. “They don’t wobble down to our house. I’d like to see Harriet wobblin’ a minute—for once.”

“No, Harr’et’s firm,” said Uncle William. “An’ I guess you really like it better that way.” He spoke encouragingly.

“You have to settle down to it when you’re married,” went on Uncle William, “settle down comfortable-like—find the easy spots and kind o’ make for ’em. It’s like the weather, I reckon—you expect some weather—rain and thunder and so on.” Uncle William’s gaze rested contentedly on the cloudless, far-reaching sky.... “We ’d grumble a little, I guess—any way you ’d fix it.... But we wouldn’t want biling-hot sunshine all the time. Why, climates where they have that kind o’ weather—” Uncle William sat up, looking about him, “It’s terrible tryin’—dust and fleas and scorpions—and it’s dreadful dull living, too.... I like a good deal of weather myself. It keeps things movin’—suthin’ to pay attention to.”

“What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” demanded Andy, peering towards something blue that stuck up over the edge of William’s pocket.

Uncle William’s hand reached down to it—“That’s the plans,” he said, “for Benjy’s house. It’s the plans—as far as he’s got,” he added conscientiously.

Andy’s eye turned away—grudging.

Uncle William drew out the blue paper and looked at it fondly. “I’m helping Benjy decide what he wants—from time to time.” He spread out the paper on his knee.

Andy turned his back and looked out to sea—sideways.

“Want to see ’em, Andy?” asked Uncle William.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s a good place to see ’em.” Uncle William glanced at the flat rock. He laid down the blue paper and smoothed the curly edges with big, careful fingers.

“You get two-three stones, Andy—to anchor ’em down—”

Andy got up with an indifferent air and wandered off, gathering in a handful of small rocks.

“That’s good—put one of ’em here—and one here—and here. That’s good!” Uncle William leaned back and looked at it with simple delight.

Andy’s air was detached.

Uncle William glanced at him. His gaze softened. “This is Benjy’s room,” he said. His finger followed a white dotted line on the paper.

Andy bent a little.

“An’ here the lib’ry—and the gallery—”

“The what?” Andy ducked a little toward the plan.

“That’s the gallery—didn’t I tell ye, Andy?”

“No.” Andy’s mouth was open at it.

“It’s for picters, you know, and marble things—kind o’ standing round.”

“Huh!” The mouth closed.

“It ’ll be quite nice, I reckon—when it’s done. I can see he sets store by it—” Uncle William’s finger hovered dubiously about the spot. “An’ this part here—all this wing—is for Sergia and him—Alan—”

“They ain’t here,” said Andy.

“But they’re going to be here sometime,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “It ’ll be quite a fam’ly then.” He gazed at the blue paper fondly. “I do like a fam’ly—seems kind o’ foolish to build a house and not have a fam’ly.”

Andy said nothing. His eye was studying a corner of the plan. “What’s that?” he demanded.

Uncle William bent to it. He lifted his face, beaming. “‘W’s room’—That’s my room,” he said.

Andy glared at it. “You going to live there—with him!”

“Why, no, Andy—not just live there—It’s a kind o’ place for me to stay nights, you know—if I get caught up there—stormy weather?” Uncle William looked at him a little anxiously.

Andy got up. “I’ve got to go ’long,” he said.

Uncle William’s face held him sympathetically. “I was goin’ to show you the rest of the plans,” he said.

“I don’t care about ’em,” said Andy. He moved away.

Uncle William’s big fingers found a stub of pencil in his pocket and brought it out. “I was thinking, Andy—” he said slowly.

Andy turned back—a little.

“I was wondering if you ’d mind havin’ the same room as me—up to Benjy’s?”

“I don’t want no room,” said Andy.

“I couldn’t stay away nights.” He looked at the paper with gloomy eye.

Uncle William wet the pencil with careful tongue and bent over the paper. His fingers traced a large, scrawling A. “There!” He leaned back, looking at it with satisfied gaze. “‘A and W’s room’—looks good, don’t it!” His face beamed on Andy.

The gloom relaxed a little. “It don’t mean nothing,” said Andy.

“Well, I do’ ’no’,” said Uncle William. “It sounds nice, and when things sound nice, seems ’s if they must mean suthin’—down underneath somewheres.”

“Huh!” said Andy.

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