Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’ about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—” “All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.” “Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head. “I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said. “Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.” Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.” Bodet stared at him. “You told him—” “I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.” Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—” Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.” He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.” Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in. XII THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor. The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said. “I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his feet down. The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?” “It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever. You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!” A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard, you know?” “‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.