“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.” Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at the postmark. “I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading bits from the letter. The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door. Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see about getting ready to go with you.” “I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.” “The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern. “I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path over the cliff. Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.” “She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark. “She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!” VII I’VE got a fire made, Celia. You come right along in,” said Uncle William. He regarded her kindly as she stood in the doorway, her curls freshened in the wind and her cheeks touched with clear pink—like the morning outside. She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in. Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly— A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a scornful hand at the wood in the box. “‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was set, in the sunshine, with plates for two. “Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he set the pail on its shelf. She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.