She looked at him. “I’m not engaged any more,” she replied, “I just was.” Uncle William’s face was full of sympathy. “I didn’t know ’t you ’d lost anybody,” he said. “You poor little girl!” She looked up again—a little puzzled line between her eyes, “He wasn’t so much—to lose—” she said slowly. “When was it he died?” asked Uncle William. She stared at him. Then she laughed and threw out her hands in a quick gesture. “You thought he died!” she said. “Didn’t you say so?” demanded Uncle William. “I didn’t mean that—” She returned, a little guiltily, to her potatoes. Uncle William looked at her. “I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her head with a little defiant movement. Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles. She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the faint sound of voices came from the beach. “He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the other girls wanted him—” “George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.” She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness, “I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re selfish—and stupid and lazy—!” Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said. He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to think about it that way?” Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—” “It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly. “It’s the nicest one I ever had,” she said. A little laugh lighted her face—“and it will be the nicest one that ever was when I’ve cleaned up a little.” She dried her hands on the towel, looking down at them. “I know what you mean, Mr. Benslow—about ’little ones’—I guess every woman knows about that—and wants ’em,” she added, under her breath, to the towel. “But there’s some things we can’t have!” She took down the broom from the wall. “Now, if you’re going out, I’ll sweep up a little.”