“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should think.” He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the beach. “I picked out some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully, “I must ’a’ left ’em down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.” Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick. I’m about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the sink and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she said kindly as she passed him in the doorway. “No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle William. The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply. Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the wind blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm glinting in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented look in his face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said comfortably. Juno came across and rubbed against him and he stooped to pet her. Then he went into the bedroom and came out with a plan of the new house. He spread it on the table and sat down, studying it with pleased, shrewd smile. The clock ticked and Juno purred into the stillness and a little breeze came in the window, clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and looked at the clock. His mouth remained open a little and he went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s if she o’t to be back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his glasses and adjusted them, and took a long look. A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a large man, with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up there putty good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully. “You can’t hurry on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and paused to take breath, looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful on his toes,” said Uncle William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip over and spill suthin’.... I do ’no’ who he is.” The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his hat, and his bald head shone in the sun. Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen, benignant eye. “Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held out a round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.” Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man. “I don’t seem to remember your being here before?” he said. “No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or two.” He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and rocks. “You have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-out voice that gave the words no color. Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in, sir?” The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far when I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead. “You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William. “From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”