Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably. Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly. Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.” He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully. XIV HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait. He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a putty early start.” Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?” “Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.” “You’re not going out?” Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor. Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.” “Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.” Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.” Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern. Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said. “Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly. “Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back. Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out. Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without me.” “I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.