Andy’s face held no comment. Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—” “Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely. “That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.” Andy cast a scornful eye at him. But his face, set toward the horizon line, was non-committal. “I can see it in Benjy plainer ’n I can in me,” went on Uncle William, “how it acts—wanting things jest so—and kind o’ dancing all round if you can’t have ’em.... I reckon that’s what marryin ’s for—to kind o’ steady ye like—ballast, you know. You can’t ride quite so high, maybe, but you can steer better...” “Somebody’.l steer,” said Andy. Uncle William cast the flick of a smile at him. “Well, you wouldn’t want two captains, Andy—not on the same boat, would ye? That’s what makes all the trouble, I reckon—” he went on thoughtfully, “wantin’ to go two ways to once. Seems ’f folks didn’t know what they got married for—some of ’em.” “Well, I do ’no’,” said Andy without enthusiasm. Uncle William looked at him with a quiet smile. “You wouldn’t want to get a divorce, would you, Andy?” “Lord, no!” said Andy. Uncle William’s smile grew deeper. “I reckoned you ’d feel that way—Seems ’f the rivets all kind o’ loosen up—when folks talk about separatin’ and divorce and so on—things get kind o’ shackly-like and wobble some.” Andy grinned. “They don’t wobble down to our house. I’d like to see Harriet wobblin’ a minute—for once.” “No, Harr’et’s firm,” said Uncle William. “An’ I guess you really like it better that way.” He spoke encouragingly. “You have to settle down to it when you’re married,” went on Uncle William, “settle down comfortable-like—find the easy spots and kind o’ make for ’em. It’s like the weather, I reckon—you expect some weather—rain and thunder and so on.” Uncle William’s gaze rested contentedly on the cloudless, far-reaching sky.... “We ’d grumble a little, I guess—any way you ’d fix it.... But we wouldn’t want biling-hot sunshine all the time. Why, climates where they have that kind o’ weather—” Uncle William sat up, looking about him, “It’s terrible tryin’—dust and fleas and scorpions—and it’s dreadful dull living, too.... I like a good deal of weather myself. It keeps things movin’—suthin’ to pay attention to.” “What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” demanded Andy, peering towards something blue that stuck up over the edge of William’s pocket. Uncle William’s hand reached down to it—“That’s the plans,” he said, “for Benjy’s house. It’s the plans—as far as he’s got,” he added conscientiously. Andy’s eye turned away—grudging.