THE day was alive—pink dawn, moving waves, little tingling breaths of salt, and fresh, crisp winds. Celia, up in the little house, was singing bits of song, peering into closets and out, brushing and scrubbing and smiling, and running to and fro.... Uncle William, out on the big rock near the house, turned his head and listened to the flurry going on inside.... There was a pause and a quick exclamation—and silence. Through the open door he could see the curly head bent over an old plate. She was standing on a chair and had reached the plate down from the top shelf. Uncle William’s face fell a little. She jumped down from the chair and came toward the door, holding it at arm’s length. “Look at that!” she said.

Uncle William looked. “That’s my boot-grease,” he said a little wistfully. “I put it up there—kind o’ out of your way, Celia.”

She set it down hard on the rock. “I’ll make you some fresh—when I get to it.” She disappeared in the door, and Uncle William looked at the plate. He half got up and reached out to it—“The’s suthin’ about real old grease—” he murmured softly. He took up the plate and looked at it—and looked around him—at the sky and moor and sea.... “I do’ ’no’ where I’d put it ’t she wouldn’t find it,” he said regretfully. He set the plate down on the rock and returned to his harbor. A light wind touched the water and the little boats skimmed and shook out sail. Down on the beach George Manning was bending over his dory, stowing away nets. The other men on the beach went to and fro, and scraps of talk and laughter floated up. Uncle William leaned over, scanning the scene with happy eye—“When you goin’ out, Georgie?” he called down.

The young man lifted his head and made a hollow of his hands—“Waiting for Steve,” he called up.

“He goin’ out with ye?”

The young man nodded and pointed to a figure loping down over the rocks.

The figure joined him and stood by him. The two men were talking and scanning the sky. Uncle William gazed over their heads—out to the clear horizon.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. He looked a little wistfully at the Jennie rocking below.

Celia came to the door, “You going out today, Mr. Benslow?”

Uncle William shook his head and looked at the sky.

“It’s a good day,” said Celia.

“Best kind o’ day—” assented Uncle William. He looked again at the heavens. Little scallops—rays of clouds, shot athwart it.

“I’d go if I was you,” said Celia.

“I thought mebbe I’d stay and help Benjy—byme-by. George Manning’s going out.” The corner of his eye sought her face.

It dimpled a little. “He told me he was going out—when he brought the paper yesterday,” she said. “It’s behind the clock—when you want it,” she added.

“I don’t want it—not now,” said Uncle William absently.

Celia returned to her work and Uncle William was left in the clear, open peace of the morning. Along the horizon the boats crawled back and forth, and down on the beach the clutter and hurry of men and oars came up, fresh. He bent forward and watched it all—his big, round face full of sympathy and happy comment....

“Much as ever George ’ll make out to set this morning,” he said. His eye scanned the distant boats that crept along the horizon with cautious tread. “He ought to ’a’ known Steve Burton ’d be late. Steve ’d miss his own funeral—if they ’d let him.” Uncle William chuckled..... The great, dark boat had lifted sail and was moving a little, feeling her way to meet the mysterious power that waited somewhere out in the open—Uncle William watched her swing to the wind and lift her wings....

He stepped to the door—“Oh, Celia—Want to see suthin’ pretty?”

The girl went to the window and looked out. She gazed at the sky, and swept the horizon with a look. “Anything different from usual?” she said. Her eye kept away from the harbor.

Uncle William came and stood behind her, looking down. “Just look down there a minute, Celia.” He took the curly head in his hands and bent it gently.

She gazed at the boat—pacing slowly with the deepening wind—and her eyes glinted a little.

“Looks nice, don’t it?” said Uncle William.

She nodded, her fingers on her apron traveling with absent, futile touch. “I always like to see boats start off,” she said happily.... “Look, how she takes the wind—!” She leaned forward, her eyes glowing, her face lighted with the same quick, inner light that touched the breeze and the sails.

Uncle William, behind her, smiled benignantly.

“He’s a good sailor,” he said contentedly, “I taught George how to sail a boat myself.”

He leaned forward beside her. The boat had come opposite them—gathering herself for flight. The full sails tightened to the breeze, and the bow rose and dipped in even rhythm.... The girl’s eyes followed it happily.

Uncle William’s hands made a trumpet about his words—“Oh-o—George! Oh-lo-ho!—Ship ahoy!” he bellowed.

The young man looked up. He took off his hat and swung it about his head. The boat was moving faster and the wind blew the hair from his forehead.

“Give him a kind of send-off, Celia!” said Uncle William. He untied the little starched bow of her apron. “Wave it to him,” he said. “It ’ll bring him good luck, mebbe—!”

She pulled at the apron and flung it wide—shaking it up and down with quick little movements that danced.

“That’s the way,” said Uncle William, “That’s right.”

The young man looked up with eager eyes. He leaped on the rail and ran along with quick, light step, waving back. Then he sprang to the stem seat and took the tiller. He was off to the mackerel fleet—with the sun shining overhead—and up on the cliff the girl stood with eager eyes and little freshening curls that blew in the wind.

She tied on the apron soberly and went back to her work.

Uncle William, standing up over the sink, was looking for something.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

Uncle William dimbed down and peered under the sink. “I used to have a paintbrush,” he said. He looked about the room vaguely and helplessly—

“Covered with red paint?” asked Celia.

“—Mebbe ’twas red,” said Uncle William thoughtfully, “I do’ ’no’ when I used that paint-brash—But it’s a good brush and Benjy said they was short of brushes. I thought mebbe—”

“It’s out behind the woodpile,” she said crisply, “I put it there yesterday—fifty old rags with it—I was going to burn them up,” she added, “but I didn’t get to it.” Her eyes danced.

“They’re perfectly good paint rags, Celia.” Uncle William looked at her reproachfully. “I was tellin’ Benjy this morning I’d got a nice lot of rags for him. I do’ ’no’ what I’d ’a’ done if you ’d burned them up.”

“There are plenty more around,” said the girl. She looked meaningly at a bit of wristband that showed below his sleeve.

Uncle William tucked it hastily out of sight. “I gen’ally trim ’em off,” he said. “But I couldn’t find my scissors this morning—I thought the knife had cut it putty good?” He peered down at it distrustfully.

“Knife!” The word was scornful—but the little look that followed him from the door held only gentleness and affection.

Uncle William, outside the door, looked at the sky and the harbor, with the mackerel fleet sailing on it—and at the Jennie rocking below. Then his eye traveled, half guiltily, over the moor toward Benjy’s, and back.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. “No kind o’ day to—” He took a step toward Benjy’s house—another, and another, and moved briskly off up the road. Suddenly he turned, as if a hand had been laid on his shoulder, and strode toward the rocky path that led to the beach. A big smile held his face. “—No kind o’ day to paint,” he said softly as he dragged the dory to the water’s edge and shoved off. Five minutes later the Jennie had hoisted anchor and was off to the fleet. Benjy, painting with Gunnion up in the new house, looked out now and then from the window as if hoping to see a big figure rolling toward him along the white road.

Celia, in the little house on the cliff, brought a roll of cloth from the shelf over the sink and undid it slowly. Inside was a large pair of scissors. She smiled a little as she took them up and spread out the cloth. It was a great garment, the size and shape of Uncle William. Sitting by the window, where the breeze blew in from the water, her thimble flew in the light. Now and then she glanced far out where the boats sailed. Then her eyes returned to her needle and she sewed with swift stitches... a little smile came and went on her face as the breeze came and went on the water outside.

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