IN March Jimmu Yoshitomo arrived and, soon after him, a cablegram from Alan and Sergia. “Hurray!” Uncle William leaned out of the window, waving it, “It’s come, Benjy—Didn’t I tell you it ’d come!” Bodet hurried up and took it from him, reading it aloud, Uncle William leaning over him—

“Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth and Mother both doing well.”

Uncle William leaned out further, reading it over his shoulder. “Wil-helmina Bodet—Kind o’ queer, ain’t it, Benjy?”

“It’s a girl—and she’s named for you,” said Bodet proudly.

“Why, so ’t is—Willie-Meeny.” Uncle William regarded the paper fondly. “—and it’s a girl, you think, do you, Benjy?... I’m glad it’s a girl. I al’ays like little girls—they have ways with ’em.” He took the paper and handled it tenderly—turning it over and looking at it as if something further might crop up. “Jest think how it come to us, Benjy—scootin’ round the world—’Twa ’n’t twenty-four hours old and here ’tis—and we knowin’ all about it—and seeing her lying there, all kind o’ quiet, and the little one—and folks steppin’ around soft and doin’ things.... I reckon that’s what the Lord made ’em for—” He held off the telegram and looked at it—“so ’s ’t we could be happy everywheres—seeing folks all in a minute—Seems like all one fam’ly. You don’t need to travel—just sit still and look.”

“There’s considerable travel going on still—” said Bodet smiling. He was looking out across the harbor, to the world of steamboat lines and railroads and automobiles threading the earth off there. “People don’t sit still a great deal,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of machinery humming.” His hand motioned from the top of the world where they stood, off to the sun-lit space below.

Uncle William nodded, looking at it thoughtfully. “I’ve thought about ’em—when I’ve been sailin’—all them machines. I reckon they’re made for folks that can’t travel in their minds—don’t know how—it kind o’ makes feet and legs for ’em so ’s ’t they can get around faster. They feel sort o’ empty in their minds, and lonesome, like enough, and then they take a train and go somewheres—or a toboggan slide, or suthin’, and they feel better—Don’t you reckon that’s the way ’tis, Benjy?” He looked at him hopefully.

“I shouldn’t wonder at all,” said Bodet—“There ought to be some excuse for clatter.”... The Japanese servant appeared around the corner of the house, moving a mysterious, respectful hand and Bodet joined him.

Uncle William looked at them a minute. Then he tucked the telegram in his pocket. “Guess I’ll go tell folks about it,” he said.

Jimmu Yoshitomo took possession of Bodet and his belongings as thoroughly as Celia had taken possession of Uncle William—though with possibly a little less flurry. He made a little garden for him out by the house, and raised flowers and vegetables and planted flowers alongside the house and among the rocks—and found a sheltered corner where wisteria would live through the winter—if carefully protected.

By September the wisteria had sent great shoots against the house, and the flowers among the rocks were a brilliant mass of bloom. The Japanese moved among them like a dusky blossom in white coat and trousers—his century-old face turned always toward Bodet and his needs.

Andy, coming up the road, regarded him with disfavor—“Monkey man and monkey clo’es,” he said scornfully.

“Benjy takes a sight o’ comfort with him,” responded William.

They made their way toward the house, and Jimmu Yoshitomo approached from the garden, bowing low.

Uncle William bowed low in return. Andy remained stiffly erect, detached from all these things.

“Don’t you stop workin’, Jimmie Yosh,” said Uncle William kindly—“We’re just goin’ to set ’round a spell.” They went on toward the house and Jimmu Yoshitomo returned to his flowers.

Inside, the house was a bit of tropic-land that had floated over seas, and lighted on the Island. Colors in the old rugs glowed dully, and little gleams of metal and glass caught the light and played with it. The tiny kitchen was a white-set gem, and through the long vista of the living-room doors there were hints of the art gallery and a scattered horde of pictures.

“Like enough he’s in there,” said William.

The gallery was the only room in the house that had not been put in order. Even Sergia’s and Alan’s rooms were ready—the beds made and a little basket cradle swinging in the apple-wood frame that George Manning had made for it—in his off hours.

Uncle William could never pass the door without looking in. He peeked in now, on tiptoe, and withdrew.

“Looks nice, don’t it?” he confided to Andy.

“Kind o’ odd,” admitted Andy.

They stood in the door of the gallery and looked in on its emptiness. Pictures stood on the floor and on boxes and chairs. Some of the boxes were still unopened—and only a small part of the pictures taken out had been hung up.

Uncle William looked around him with pleased eyes. “He’s got some new ones out, Andy.”

“Uh-huh.” Andy bent over and peered at one—a little behind the others. He straightened himself quickly and shut his eyes. “They ain’t fit to look at,” he said.

Uncle William bent over and drew the picture out and regarded it with interest. He set it against a box and stood off and looked at it, and looked at it again. “She’s dreadful pretty, ain’t she, Andy?”

Andy opened his eye a crack and withdrew it. “She ain’t decent,” he said firmly.

“You can set with your back to it, Andy,” said Uncle William kindly. “You don’t need to go stun-blind—not to see it.”

“They won’t let him have it on the Island,” said Andy. He sat down and glared at the picture of an innocent cow—of the Dutch school.

“Well, I do’ ’no’, Andy.” Uncle William studied the picture with lenient eyes. “She’s kind o’ young and pretty—The’ ain’t much about this climate in it—” He glanced casually up at the glass roof above them. “Come along winter, now—when the winds get to shrieking and blowing up there—it ’ll seem kind o’ queer to see her standin’ on a hank—like that—all ready to jump in so, won’t it?”

Andy turned his head a little and craned his neck.

“I’ve been in countries,” went on Uncle William, “where that ’d seem putty good—Italy, now—best kind of place—warm and summery always—year ’round. Seems ’s if in this climate we ’d ought to paint furs and woolen goods more. I don’t suppose Benjy knew where he was going to hang his pictures when he bought ’em—just gathered ’em up most anywheres—without thinkin’ how they ’d look hung up.”

“He’s coming,” said Andy. He wheeled about on his box.

The man stood in the doorway, looking at them with pleased eyes. “I thought I should find you here.” The glasses dangled from their long chain and he swung them a little, smiling.... “What do you think is down in the harbor?” he said quietly—

Uncle William got to his feet—“Hev they come, Benjy?”

“Looks like it,” said the man. “If I know my own yacht—she’s just dropped anchor off the Island.”

Uncle William cast a quick glance at the glass roof overhead.

“You can’t see anything there,” said Bodet smiling. “Come on out.”

They went quickly from the house—out to the edge of the cliff. Beneath the cliff, close to the Jennie, a big white boat swung at anchor, and on the deck a man and woman stood looking up to the Island.

“She’s got it with her, Benjy!” said Uncle William. He leaned over the cliff. Little white garments in the woman’s arms fluttered softly.

The woman looked up and saw them and raised the child high in her arms, lifting it to them in the shining harbor light.