“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.” The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if he did not propose to be tampered with. “I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle William comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing and lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come sailin’ into a harbor—night or day.” The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him curiously. “—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to do your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always reachin’ out from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort of?” The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought about it that way,” he said. “Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays kind o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you know—and one day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to myself—’Supposin’, instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em, pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-like, from the shore. There was a minute in that boat when I wouldn’t’ ’a’ known whether it was you or me, and it felt uncomfortable—real uncomfortable,” said Uncle William. Andy’s face held a wide, half-scared grin. The young man looked at Uncle William curiously. “I could imagine things like that—if I wanted to,” he said dryly. Uncle William nodded. “I don’t doubt you could—a good deal better. But I wouldn’t if I was you.” “I don’t intend to,” said the young man. He half rose from his seat. “It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got a family—a wife, like enough, and children—” The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it dropped to his side. Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you ’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?” He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his forehead, looking at him inquiringly. “I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced. “Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you anyhow—before that.” The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of firmness about the chin. “I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.