I’d LET him go, Benjy, if I was you.” Two weeks had gone by and the mackerel continued to run. George Manning had stayed by the house, driving nails with big, fierce strokes and looking out over the harbor with his set face.... The house had come on rapidly—the shingling was done and most of the inside woodwork was up. A new set of men had been put on, to replace the mackerel men, and Manning drove them hard. It had not been easy to get men, or to keep them—with the mackerel schooling red out there in the harbor. But something in Manning’s eye held them to their work.

“I’d let him go, Benjy,” said Uncle

William. The two men stood in front of the new house, looking toward it. “He’s got her closed in tight—” went on Uncle William, “Windows all in. The’ can’t anything happen to her now.... He’s stood by ye putty well,” he suggested craftily—“better ’n I’d ’a’ done—with all that goin’ on out there!” He waved his hand at the water.

Bodet’s eye followed the motion. “I want him for the inside work,” he said.

Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “I know you want him, Benjy. But here on the Island we al’ays kind o’ give and take—Ain’t you been taking quite a spell?” he added gently.

Bodet turned a little. “A contract’s a contract,” he said uneasily.

“Well, mebbe,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s why we ain’t ever had many contracks here on the Island—We’ve al’ays liked to live along kind o’ humanlike.”

Bodet smiled a little. “I’ll let him off,” he said, “—if he ’ll get things along so we can paint—I can look after the painting for him myself—” his chest expanded a little.

Uncle William’s eye was mild. “I reckoned you ’d come around to doin’ it, Benjy. We wouldn’t ever ’a’ felt comfortable, sitting in your house—when ’twas all done,” Uncle William looked at it approvingly—“We wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to set there and look at it and remember how George Manning didn’t get a chance to put down a net all this season.... I reckon I’d al’ays kind o’ remember his face—when I was settin’ there—the way he looks in there, and the mackerel ripplin’ round out there in the water—and him hammerin’.”

Bodet grunted a little. “All right—I’ll let him off—tomorrow.”

Uncle William beamed on him. “You ’ll feel a good deal better, Benjy—now ’t you’ve done it. I see it was kind o’ making you bother?”

“I could have stood it—quite a while yet—if you could have,” said Bodet dryly.

Uncle William chuckled and looked toward the house—“There’s George in there now—You go tell him—why don’t you, Benjy.”

He moved away and Bodet stepped toward the house. He disappeared inside and Uncle William seated himself on a rock and studied the boats that dotted the harbor. Only two were at anchor—the new Jennie, riding in proud, fresh paint, near by, and George Manning’s great boat—dark green, with crimson lines and gleams of gold along the prow. She was a handsome boat, large and finely built, and Maiming had refused more than one offer for her for the mackerel season....

He would take her out himself—or she should ride the season at anchor.

Uncle William turned toward the house—The young man was coming from the door. “Hello, George—I hear you’re going out!”

The sombre face smiled a little. “‘Bout time!” His eye dropped to the big boat and lingered on it. “She’s all ready—and I’ve got my pick of men.” He gathered a stem of grass from the cliff and took it in his teeth. “I don’t believe I was going to hold out much longer,” he said.

“Oh, yes—you ’d ’a’ held out. I wa ’n’t a mite afraid of your not holdin’ out,” said Uncle William. “All I was afraid of was that Benjy ’d hold out—I kind o’ thought he ’d be ’shamed byme-by—when he come to see how ’twas on the Island.... It’s different, living on an island, George. We can’t expect everybody to see what we do—right off, I guess. There’s something about living on an island, perhaps. You just get little handy samples o’ things and see how ’tis—right off. Bein’ born on an island’s a dretful good thing—saves you hurryin’ and repentin’.” Uncle William gazed at the horizon. “Benjy don’t like repentin’ any more ’n you do. He ’ll be real glad ’bout your going—byme-by.”

“I’m going down to fix things up a little—I’ll be back along towards night.”

“Oh—George—?” Uncle William’s fingers fumbled in his pocket.

The young man held his step.

“I’ve got it here—somewheres—” murmured Uncle William. “Yes—here ’tis.... You just give this to Celia, will you?” He held out a torn envelope. “You tell her to put it behind the clock for me.” Uncle William’s face was impassive.

The young man eyed it a minute....

“All right.” He held out his hand. “I wasn’t expecting to go by your place. But I can—if you want me to.” He tucked the note in his pocket and moved off.

Uncle William looked after him with a kindly smile—“Just hates to do it—worst way,” he murmured.... “Don’t none of us know what’s good for us, I reckon—no more ’n he does.”

Celia, moving about the room like a bird, paused a moment and listened. Then she went cautiously to the window and pushed back the red curtain and looked out... her eyes followed the line of road, with eager, glancing look—little smiles in them and bubbles of laughter. She dropped the curtain and went back to her work, shaking out pillows and dusting the quaint room, with intent, peering looks that darted at the dust and shook it out and rebuked it as it flew.

A shadow blocked the door, but she did not look up. She held a pillow in her hand, looking severely at a rip in the side and Uncle William’s feathers fluffing out.... The young man scraped his feet a little on the stone step.

She looked up then—the severe look still in her face. “Mr. Benslow is not here,” she said.

“I know he is not here.” He stepped over the sill. “He asked me to give you this.” He fetched the foolish paper out of his pocket grimly and looked at it and handed it to her.

She took it gravely. “What is it for?” she asked.

“He said you were to put it behind the clock—I don’t know what it’s for—” he said a little gruffly.

Her laugh scanned the bit of paper. “I can put it behind the clock—if he wants it there—” She walked over and tucked it away. “But I think it’s a funny idea,” she said.

“So do I,” said George.

“Will you sit down?” She motioned to the disorderly room.

“I’ve got to go,” he replied. He looked about him—sitting down.

A little smile played through Celia’s face and ran away. “I didn’t thank you for carrying the potatoes for me—that night—” she said politely. “You went off so quick I didn’t get a chance.”

“I’m going mackereling tomorrow,” responded George.

“You are!” Her eyes opened. “Did Mr. Bodet say you could?”

His face darkened. “I’d have gone before—so far as he is concerned.” He straightened himself a little.

“Oh—I—thought—he didn’t want you to go.”

“He didn’t—but that isn’t what kept me.”

“What was it—kept you, then?” She had seated herself and her hands, holding the dust-cloth, were crossed demurely in her lap.

George looked at them. “I stayed because I thought I ought to,” he said.

“I’d have gone.” She gave a little flit to the dust-cloth and folded it down.

He turned his eyes away. “Likely enough you would—” he said, “you’re a woman—”

“I don’t know what you mean by that!” She had got to her feet and was looking at him.

“I don’t know just what I mean myself,” said George. “But I guess I didn’t mean any harm—women are just different, you know.... I’ve got to go now—” he said, crossing his legs.

“You’ve got a nice boat,” said Celia. The teasing look had left her face.

“Do you think so?” He flushed a little and lifted his eyes to the window.

“Uncle William says she’s the best boat on the harbor,” said Celia.

“Well—I guess she is.... He’s got a good one, too—mine’s bigger,” said George.

“It’s a beautiful boat, I think,” said the girl. She had gone to the window and was looking down. The wind came in and blew past her curls a little and ruffled around through the room.

“I’d like to take you out in her some day,” said George.

“Would you!” She turned to him, with a quick little flutter of curls and the color dabbing her cheeks. “I’d love to go!”

“All right.” He got up. He went toward the door slowly—as if fingers held him.

The girl did not stir....

He turned at the door and looked at her—“Good-bye,” he said—

“Good-bye.” She moved a step, “Oh—I—”

He paused a minute—waiting.

“I thank you for bringing the paper,” said Celia.

“That’s all right.” He moved away down the path.

She stood where he had left her—the dust-cloth in her hand, the little clear color in her cheeks. Slowly the look changed. By and by she went to the window and looked out. Down below, a young man had drawn a dory to the water’s edge and was shoving off. She watched him seat himself and pull out with long, easy strokes.

Presently he looked up. He crossed the clumsy oars in one hand and lifted his hat.

The dust-cloth fluttered a moment and was gone.

With a smile the young man replaced his hat and resumed the oars. The dory moved through the water with long, even motion—and overhead a gull followed the dory, hanging on moveless, outspread wings.

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