THEY were sitting about the fire-place in the big living-room, and a fire burned briskly for the cool September morning. In front of the fire, on a great rug, Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth, fresh from her bath, gurgled and reached out cooing hands to the fire. Her language could not be understood—not even by the dusky Jimmu Yoshitomo, who came and stood in the doorway and looked in with unfathomable eyes. But the words were very pointed and sweet and quick and had little laughs and chuckles behind them—all about things she used to know.... By and by—when she had learned proper ones, she would forget the things she used to know—or remember them only in her dreams, or some day when she met a stranger in the street—and half stopped and went on—listening to the little bells that were ringing somewhere—far off.... She lunged toward the fire and fell afoul of her toes and laughed and seized them and gazed at them intently.

Uncle William, a hand on either knee—gazed in rapt content. “She’s about the littlest and the nicest—” he said, “I didn’t reckon she ’d be like that.”

He looked at Bodet for sympathy. Benjy smiled and swung the long glasses playfully toward the rug.... The person on the rug regarded them a minute—then she adjusted her muscles and made a little hitching motion toward the glasses—they were round and they glittered and went back and forth—and ought to be stopped.... She reached up a hand and laughed and toppled over—and looked up and saw Andy’s grin somewhere.... For a long minute she gazed back at it—then she went on hands and knees across the rug—flying from fate.

Sergia reached down and gathered her up, smoothing the white dress. “I put her into short clothes a week ago,” she said proudly....

“She couldn’t stan’ up a little now, Sergia, could she!” suggested Uncle William.

“Never!” Sergia looked at him and patted the round legs. “She won’t walk for ten weeks probably,” she said kindly.

Uncle William’s face had fallen a little. “She ’ll be quite a spell gettin’ down to my house,” he said wistfully.

“I’ll bring her tomorrow.” The baby gurgled and reached out fat hands and Uncle William bent forward.

“Kind o’ takes to me!” he said. He held out tentative hands, waggling the fingers, and the child looked at them gravely, and leaned forward a little, and broke into glee as Uncle William seized her and swung her toward the ceiling.

“She’s not afraid of you,” said Sergia proudly.

“Afraid of me!... I reckon she couldn’t be afraid of Uncle William—!” There was something a little misty behind the big spectacles... the blue eyes looked out at the child from forgotten seas. She grasped the tufts of beard and tugged at them, rocking hard, and making remarks to them.

Uncle William smiled in triumph and seized the hand. “I reckon I might as well take her down to my house,” he said. “She’s got to learn the way sometime.”

Sergia’s face was a little alarmed—“You couldn’t take care of her.”

“I don’t know why,” said Uncle William, “I reckon I can take all the care she needs—She don’t need any entertainin’.” He gazed at her fondly and chucked her a little.

“She has to be fed,” said Sergia.

“I’ll tend to feedin’ her myself,” said Uncle William, “Nobody ever starved—to my house. You got a little bunnet for her somewheres?” He put his big hand on the shining head.

Sergia looked at them reflectively. “She has to have special milk, you know—?”

“I get mine to Andy’s,” said Uncle William. “It’s just as special as any, ain’t it—Andy’s milk?”

Sergia smiled a little. “It isn’t that—It has to be prepared—sterilized, you know.”

Uncle William looked at her sympathetically—“Now, that’s too bad—and she looks so healthy, too!” He held her off, and looked at her, and danced her a little as an experiment—and broke her all up into little laughs.... He chuckled softly. “I reckon I’ll hev to take her,” he said.

“We-l-l—” Sergia went slowly toward the kitchen and returned with a bottle in each hand. “I’m going to let you take her,” she said magnanimously. She laid the bottles on the table and brought the little bonnet and put it on, patting it and talking little, foolish words to it—“There!” She stood off and looked at them, doubtfully. “You must feed her as soon as you get there, and then again in three hours.” She held out the bottles.

“Yes’m.” Uncle William stored a bottle in either pocket—where they would balance—and started toward the door.

“You must bring her back before dinner, you know.” She was following them protectingly, “—and I think I’ll come down by and by,” she added.

Uncle William turned and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry a mite, Sergia—There’s me and Celia to take care of her and we’re goin’ to hev the best time ’t ever was—The’ can’t anything happen to her—not whilst I’m round.”

He strode proudly out of the door and over the rocks, the little figure riding on his arm. The wind blowing softly across the Island touched the small figure, and Uncle William snuggled it down in his arm, covering it with a great hand. The head nestled to him and drowsed a little and fell asleep.

Uncle William came in the door with hushed step.... “Sh-h—?” he said. He held up a warning finger.

Celia stopped singing and came over and peeked at it. “Isn’t she a dear!” She held out inviting arms.

But Uncle William, proud in possession, marched across to the red lounge and sat down.

“Aren’t you going to put her down?” whispered Celia.

Uncle William shook his head. “Not yet.” He sat very quiet and the fire crackled in the stove—with the kettle humming a little—and leaving off and beginning again.... Juno came across and leaped up. She rubbed against him and waited a minute—then she purred towards his knee. Uncle William watched her benignantly, holding very still.

She purred softly, kneading her claws and talking.... Presently she paused, with fixed gaze—her tail switched a question and was still. She leaped down and went across and sat down, her back to the room, and communed with space.

Uncle William’s chuckle was very gentle.... “Juno’s makin’ up her mind,” he said.

Celia turned and looked at the grey back and laughed—“She’s jealous!” she said in surprise.

Uncle William nodded. “Women-folks.”

She made no response and the room was still again. The baby stirred and stretched an arm and saw Uncle William’s face bending over her—and laughed.

Celia came across and held out her arms—“Give her to me!” she said.

She gathered in the child, with little inarticulate words, and Uncle William watched her gravely. “You ain’t treated him right, Celia,” he said gently.

She looked at him over the baby’s frock—and her eyes had little stars in them.

“You ’d ought to go tell him, Celia, ’t you didn’t mean anything,” said Uncle William, “—actin’ that way. He’s a good deal cut up—the way you’ve been.

“I don’t know where he is,” said Celia. She was smoothing the white frock and smiling to Wilhelmina and whistling little tunes.

“He’s down to the beach,” said Uncle William. “He come along down when I did—You ain’t treated him right,” he said slowly.... “I like fam’lies, and I like folks to have houses and fam’lies of their own—not be livin’ round, Celia.” He looked at her kindly.... “She ’ll be kind of a fam’ly to me—” He nodded to the little figure in her arms, “You needn’t worry a mite about me, Celia.... You just wait till I get her suthin’ to eat and then you can go.... George said he was going out sailing,” he added.

He drew the bottle from his pocket and looked at it critically.

“You ought to heat it,” said the girl quickly.

“‘D you think so?” Uncle William held it out, “—Feels kind o’ warm, don’t it—bein’ in my pocket sot Guess I’ll keep the other one there till it’s time.”

He seated himself and reached up for the baby.... Celia hesitated—looking out at the shining water and the clear sun and the big boat down below—“I don’t like to leave you alone,” she said.

“I ain’t alone,” said Uncle William, “—and like enough Sergia ’ll be here byme-by. She said suthin’ about it—You run along now, Celia. You remember he kind o’ hinted he wanted to take you out today. You tell him you ’ll go—tell him right off—fust thing—’fore anything has time to happen—” he said severely.

“Yes, sir.” She flitted from the door and he looked after her, a little dubiously.... “I ’most ought to go with her,” he said.

Then his eye fell on the gurgling face and he laughed.

He sat looking about the room with contented gaze.... “Seems ’s if I had most everything,” he said.... “Juno—”

He called the name softly, but there was no response.... “Juno!” The grey tail switched once on the floor and was still. “You come here to me, Juno!”... Presently she got up and came over to him and jumped up beside him. Uncle William put out a hand and stroked her. She settled down with her gloomy green eyes.... The baby dozed tranquilly over her bottle and finished it and sat up.... Juno’s back tightened—ready to spring. “You lie still, Juno,” said Uncle William.... “Nice kitty!” He smiled to the child and stroked the soft fur.... She reached out a willing hand and drew it back—there was a sound as if there were a small, muffled tornado in the room. Uncle William stroked the great back steadily. “You behave, Juno,” he said sternly. The child reached out the wavering hand again—and drew it back—and cooed softly.... There was a moment’s breath—then the green-eyed Juno bowed her head, closing her eyes, and allowed the small hand to travel down her grey back—and down again—and again—and the red room was filled with little, happy laughs.

THE END