BODET had taken largely to sitting about on nail-kegs, listening to the men talk and joining in now and then.... The little fretted look had left his eyes, and his voice when he spoke had a quiet note.

“You’re doin’ fine, Benjy!” Uncle William confided to him one morning. It was the week before Christmas. A fire had been built in the big living-room and the men had gathered about it, talking and laughing and thawing out. A fierce wind from the east was blowing and fine sleet drove against the windows. The room had a homelike sense—shut in from the storm.

“It’s a great thing to have building goin’ on, a day like this—when the’s a big storm from the east,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “If ’tw’an’t for the building, you might not have a soul in to see you all day.” He glanced complacently at the group about the fire.

“Costs me twelve-fifty a day,” said Bodet dryly.

“Wuth it, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, “I do’ ’no’ what money’s for if ye can’t be happy with it....” He glanced affectionately at the quiet face opposite him. “You’re getting happy every day, Benjy.... I do’ ’no’s I ever see anybody get along as fast as you do—gettin’ happy.”

The tall man laughed out. “It’s a choice between that and everlasting misery—on your old Island,” he said.

“Yes, I guess ’tis.” Uncle William’s voice was contented.

The group about the fire broke up and moved off. Uncle William’s eye followed them—“They’re going to work now. You ’ll get quite a piece done today—” He came back to the fire. “I was thinking—how ’d it do to have dinner up here!” He was looking about the room.

Bodet’s glance followed his—“Who ’ll cook it?” he said.

“We could send for Celia,” said Uncle William. “Gunnion’s team’s out in the shed—he didn’t unhitch. We could send down, easy enough, and fetch her up—dinner and all—and she could cook it out in your kitchen—” Uncle William beamed. “You ’d like that, wouldn’t ye?”

“It’s not a bad idea—I’ll tell Gunnion to drive down and get her.”

Uncle William laid a hand on his arm. “I reckon you ’d better let George fetch her up,” he said.

“I can’t spare him,” said Bodet decisively. “Gunnion can drive back and forth all day if he wants to—” Uncle William got in his way, “I guess you better let George go, Benjy—he won’t be no time driving down there and back.”

With a little smile, Bodet yielded the point and Uncle William rolled off to find George Manning and send him out into the storm.

“You tell her to wrap up good,” he called into the sleet... “and you see she’s tucked in, George, and tell her to bring plenty of salt and pep-p-er.” The last word was whirled apart by wind, and Uncle William retired into the house, a deep smile on his face.

Within an hour Celia was there, little beading moisture on the bobbing curls, and the pink in her cheeks like a rose—the kind that grows wild and red among the rocks. Uncle William looked at her approvingly. “Did you good to get out a spell, didn’t it?” he said kindly.

“I didn’t know you were worrying about my health—” She shook the little curls. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Well, I wa ’n’t—not altogether,” Uncle William’s face was placid, “—but I wouldn’t ’a’ wanted you to get cold—I guess George tucked you in pretty good—”

“I tucked myself in,” she said. “Have you got a fire made for me?”

“Everything’s all ready, Celia.” Uncle William led her out to the tiny kitchen, tiled in white and fitted with all the contrivances for skill and swiftness. She stood looking about her—the little color in her face. “Well, this is a kitchen!” she said. She drew a deep breath.

Uncle William chuckled. “I knew you ’d like it. You see you can stand right here in the middle and throw things. ’Twouldn’t suit me so well—” he said reflectively. “I like to roll around more—but this is about right for you, Celia.” He looked at her.

“Just right,” she said emphatically—“But there isn’t room for two—is there?” She looked at him and he retired, chuckling, while she examined the range, taking off lids and peeking into the oven.... George Manning appeared in the doorway. “Uncle William told me to ask you if there’s anything you want?” he said, looking about the shining little room.

Celia whisked her apron from the basket and put it on. “You can tell him there isn’t a thing I need—except to be left alone,” she added severely, “and I just told him that.”

The young man withdrew—a heavy color rising in his face.

“She didn’t want anything, did she?” said Uncle William casually.

“No.” Manning took up his plane and attacked a piece of board screwed to the bench. Uncle William watched the long, even lunge of the plane and the set of the square shoulders. He moved discreetly away.

In her kitchen, Celia spread the contents of the basket on the white shelf, and settled to her work—like a bird to its nest.... Out in the rooms beyond—amid the swirl of planes and the smell of paint and shavings and clean, fresh wood, they heard a voice singing softly to itself... and against the windows the sleet dashed itself and broke, and the great storm from the east gathered. By and by Uncle William looked into the kitchen. “You couldn’t just go out in the other room, Celia, and fetch me my coat, could ye?” He was standing in his shirt sleeves, looking at her kindly.

She glanced up from her work and paused, “No, Mr. Benslow, I couldn’t—and I do wish you ’d stop acting so.... You’re just—ridiculous!” She lifted a pie and whisked it into the oven and Uncle William retired.

He went for his coat himself and put it on, shrugging his great shoulders comfortably down into it—“If they want to act like that, they ’ll have to get along best way they can,” he muttered to himself.

His face resumed its calm and he strolled from room to room, giving advice and enjoying life. “I do like a big, comfortable storm like this,” he said, standing at the window and looking out across the black-stretched harbor. “Everything snug down there,” he waved his hand to the bleakness, “—and everything going all right up here to your house—going along putty good, that is,” he added conscientiously.

Bodet came and stood beside him, looking out. “It suits me,” he said. “I don’t want anything better than this—except to have the children back,” he added after a minute.

“They ’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy.” Uncle William’s gaze was on the blackened water. “They ’ll be’long—and the little one with ’em.... You ought to have somebody to keep house for you, Benjy—till they come—” He turned and looked at him—“Want me to lend you Celia awhile?” he said craftily, “—just whilst you’re finishing up? She likes it out there—” he nodded to the kitchen. “She likes it fust-rate out there and I don’t mind letting you have her—you can have her just as well as not.” He studied the keen face opposite him.

The man shook his head. “I don’t need her, William—I’ve sent for some one—a Jap that I knew years ago. He took care of me over there when I was with the Embassy. He said he ’d come to me any time I sent for him—so I sent.”

Uncle William beamed. “Now, ain’t that good! And it’s good his bein’ a man!” he added thoughtfully. “I like women. I do’ ’no’ anybody’t I like better ’n I do women—but sometimes they’re kind o’ trying.” His ear listened to the clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Bodet laughed—“Well, he’s a man—Jimmu Yoshitomo’s a man—though you don’t think about it—either way.”

Uncle William nodded. “I know what you mean, Benjy—they’ve got way past that—Japs have—past being men and women—they’re just old, and kind o’ human—and not just human either,” he added slowly, “I do’ ’no’ what it is... but I feel different when they’re round—kind o’ sleepy, somehow—the way I feel on the Island, still days—when the sun shines?” He looked at him inquiringly.

“That’s it. I’ve always meant to have a Jap when I had a home, and now I have the home.” He looked about the big room contentedly.

Celia came to the door and looked in. “I’m going to set the table in here,” she announced, “—by the fire.”

She set the table and called the men and returned to her kitchen. Uncle William followed her with inquiring step—“You come and eat your dinner out here with the rest of us, Celia, whilst it’s hot,” he commanded.

“I’ve got things to do—I can’t be bothered to eat now.” She shut the door on him.

Uncle William returned to the living-room with subdued face, but when he saw the group at table and the leaping fire and the plates and piles of steaming food, his face grew round again and he smiled. “Does seem good, don’t it?” He sat down, helping himself to potato and salt and butter. “The’s suthin’ about eatin’—that’s different,” he said. “—You can’t have a home without you eat in it.... I’ve seen folks try it—eatin’ one place and livin’ another, and ’twa ’n’t home. They seemed kind o’ stayin’ round—not livin’ anywheres. If I was a young man, the fust thing I’d do ’d be to have a home.” His eyes looked over Manning’s head, into space, and he chewed slowly.

Manning ignored it. “Mr. Bodet says he’s going to have a Jap keep house for him,” he said to the table in general. Andy looked up quickly. “I wouldn’t have one of them things around.”

“I do’ ’no’ why,” said Uncle William, “They’re nice little folks.”

“They’re different,” said Andy.

“Some places you couldn’t send for one that way,” said Manning. “They ’d call it ’contract labor’ and send him back pretty quick where he came from.”

“That’s what I’d do—’pretty quick.’.rdquo; said Andy.

“Now, what makes you talk like that, Andy,” said Uncle William. “You ain’t ever see one.”

“They ’ll work for nothing—and live on dirt,” said Andy glibly.

“I guess you didn’t ever see how they live, did you, Andy?” said Uncle William. His eyes were on something now and they smiled to it. “I do’ ’no’s I could just make you see it—if you wa ’n’t ever there—But they’re about the nicest little houses you ever see—and clean—You feel kind o’ ’fraid to step in ’em, they’re so clean and fixed-up.... I do’ ’no’ ’s I ever feel so big and clutterin’ as I do times ’t I’m in Japan,” he said reflectively. “Seem’s if there ’d have to be a lot done to me ’fore I was pared down fit to live in Japan.... Nice ways, too—bowin’ and ridiculous, like monkeys, maybe,—but doin’ things quicker ’n Jack Ro’binson.”

“They ’ll work for nothin’,” muttered Andy.

Uncle William turned and regarded him over his spectacles—“If anybody wants to do my work for nothin’, I do’ ’no’ why I should hinder ’em,” he said kindly. “They can come on to the Island and do my gardenin’ all they want to. It don’t hurt my feelin’s any to see ’em digging.” He waved his hand out to where the storm drove—“Why we should shove ’em off the edge when they’re just aching to do our work for us, is what I can’t see. I never see the time yet when the’ wa ’n’t work enough to go round.”

Andy shifted uneasily in his chair.

“—The’s too much!” said Uncle William with conviction.

“I guess we ’d better be doing a little of it,” laughed Manning. He got up from the table and went toward the other room... and Uncle William’s eye came back from Japan and followed him hopefully.

But the young man passed the kitchen door without a glance. Uncle William sighed and got up from the table. “You make yourself ridiculous talking about foreign folks, Andy—folks ’t you ain’t ever seen,” he said severely. The sound of the hammers came through the open door and Celia’s voice, singing gently to itself.... Outside, the rain roared hoarse, running across the moor and blotting out the sky and the boats tugging at anchor below.