“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William. “Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it to the table, filling the glasses. “Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William, glancing at the table. “I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added pointedly. Uncle William’s face fell. “I did kind o’ forget—” The door opened and Benjy came out—yawning, but brisk. “Well, we’ve got a good start,” he said. He nodded to the girl and sat down. Uncle William looked relieved. “I thought you ’d kind o’ mind getting up so early?” he said. Bodet laughed out. “I don’t mind getting up—It’s waiting for breakfast that I mind.” Uncle William looked out of the window. “I go kind o’ slow on breakfasts,” he admitted. He craned his neck a little—“Guess George is going out.” He glanced behind him. The girl had stepped outside the door a minute and Uncle William leaned forward with a confidential whisper, “She ’d make a dretful good wife for a young man, wouldn’t she!” “You ’d better eat your breakfast, William—and be thankful,” said Bodet severely. Uncle William made no reply. A look of deep craft was in his eye. When Bodet started off, he lingered behind. “I’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy,” he said. He nodded to him kindly. “You go tell Ordway what you want and I’ll talk to him ’bout it when I come. I reckon he ’ll do it the way you want it,” he said hopefully. Bodet disappeared up the road, and Uncle William pottered about the door. By and by he went in. The girl glanced up quickly. “I thought you ’d gone.” “No, I ain’t gone.” Uncle William’s tone was cheerful. “The’s two-three little things I want to tend to.” He strayed into the bedroom and when he came out she was seated by the window paring potatoes. “I’ll have to soak ’em an hour,” she said briskly, “You ought to buy some new ones.” “They be kind o’ old,” said Uncle William. He glanced past her, out of the window. “Nice place to set,” he suggested. She did not look up. “Guess George Manning’s going out,” said Uncle William. “Who’s George Manning?” said Celia. She finished another potato, with efficiency, and dropped it into the pan of water beside her. “George Manning—He’s about the nicest young man on the Island, I guess,” said Uncle William innocently. A little laugh flitted at the potatoes. She glanced out of the window and returned to her work. Uncle William’s look deepened. “He ’d make a dretful good husband for somebody.” “I don’t believe much in husbands,” she replied. She held the knife in her hand, and she was looking at him with candid, laughing eyes. Uncle William returned the look reproachfully. “You don’t have no call to say that, Celia!” “I’ve been engaged,” she replied promptly. She took up another potato with a little glance of scorn at it. Uncle William leaned forward. “When you goin’ to be married?” he asked happily, “I might ’a’ known you was engaged—nice as you be!”