“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd, thin face followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—if that’s what you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench and carried it across the room. Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of getting married, George?” he said casually. The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in place. “Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the board and took up his saw. Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and stood in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The sound of the hammers trooped in and out through the silence. Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll go find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock near by. Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see Benjy’s head moving back and forth. “Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down. By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber. “We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William. “Celia sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve, sharp.” Uncle William’s face was guileless. Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I want about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about it.” “George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William. “Have the windows come?” asked Bodet. “Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice house, Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to look like I thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen, you know—spreading her wings and settling down.” Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your George Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.” “He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him might be different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously. “I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out, I suppose—before we’re through.” “Oh, he ’ll do this all right.” Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?” “Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.” Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.” They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.” “We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”