Uncle William’s face smoothed to its genial smile as the steps died away. His fingers traced big, comfortable words on the paper and his head nodded in a kind of cheerful, all-round assent while he wrote. The clock struck ten and he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His face radiated in little wrinkles of interest. “I do’ ’no’s I ever see Andy run like that—and cross-lots, too—Harr’et wants suthin’—bad—like enough.... My—my! He hadn’t ought to run like that!”... He bent from the window. “Hello, Andy!—what you runnin’ for?” Andy halted, panting—“He’s come!” he said. The words sank to a whisper and he wheeled about, glaring at a man who was coming up the path from the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with keen, quick glance and a look of determination. He glanced indifferently at Andy and rapped sharply on the side of the door. Uncle William came across with easy gait. “Good morning,” he said—looking down from his height... “You’re the owner of this house!” said the young man. Uncle William’s eye traversed it kindly, “I reckon it belongs to me—yet awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still higher and Uncle William’s presence exhaled dignity and welcome. The young man stepped over the sill. Andy followed sulkily. “Sit down, sir.” Uncle William’s hand motioned to the red lounge. The stranger crossed and sat down, holding his hat in his hand and glancing with quick eye about the little room. Uncle William sat down opposite him, a hand on either knee, and looked at him over large spectacles. “I’m the new fish-warden,” said the young man—as if he answered a polite question. “I kind o’ reckoned you might be a fish-warden, or something like that,” said Uncle William. “I’m glad to see you.” The young man smiled a little. “You’re the first one that’s glad, I guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his face. The warm, sunny room seemed to reach out and surround him. Juno, from her place on the lounge, leaped down and walked with deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunshine, with her back to the company, and looked steadily into space. Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly. “I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man. Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said, “—close season, so.” The man’s eyebrows lifted a little. “I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward. “My name is Mason,” said the young man. “I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.” The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the village.”