“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.” “Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a little contemptuous. Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with women, was ye, George?” “I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.” “Yes—you al’ays keep a-doin’—same as I do,” said Uncle William. “But I’ve kind o’ watched ’em—between times—women. They’re interestin’,” he added, “—a leetle more interesting ’n men be, I reckon.” A little smile held the face opposite him. “Men are good enough for me,” he said. “You can talk to men—sensible—know what they mean.” “That’s it,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s what I like about women—you can’t tell what they mean—it keeps you guessing, kind of—makes you feel lively in your mind.” “My mind’s lively enough without that,” said George carelessly. His eye was on the dark water and the little white-caps that rode on it. “Well, I do’ ’no’. I like to have a good many things to think about—when I’m settin’,” said Uncle William, “and when I’m sailin’. I keep quite a lot of ’em tucked away in my mind somewheres—and fetch ’em out when I have a minute or two, quiet-like, to myself.” He touched the letter in his hand, almost reverently, “The’s suthin about women ’t I can’t make out—” he said, “If it’s a wedding or a funeral or going away, or whatever ’tis—most the first thing they think about is their clothes—like Celia here—” he touched the letter again.... “Now, that’s interestin’—’bout their clothes, ain’t it!” He beamed on him. The young man returned the look tolerantly. “Foolishness,” he said. Uncle William nodded. “I know—foolishness for you and me and Andy—and for Benjy, mebbe. But ’tain’t foolishness for women. You can see that, the way they do it. It’s kind o’ like goin’ to church to ’em and they don’t really feel right without they’re doing it.... It’s kind o’ pretty to see ’em—al’ays a-makin’ and plannin’—and makin’ ’em for the little ones ’fore they come—turning ’em over, and showin’ ’em to other women, like enough—not sayin’ much—just lookin’ at ’em.” The young man on the rock stirred uneasily. Uncle William went on hastily. “I reckon it ain’t wrong for Celia to think about getting her clothes ready.” He was smiling at the letter. “It’s when they stop thinkin’ about ’em that it’s wrong.... Why, it’s kind o’ awful!” he added severely. The young man laughed out. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Uncle William. “—Like Andy’s wife’s!” he said.