“He said you were to put it behind the clock—I don’t know what it’s for—” he said a little gruffly. Her laugh scanned the bit of paper. “I can put it behind the clock—if he wants it there—” She walked over and tucked it away. “But I think it’s a funny idea,” she said. “So do I,” said George. “Will you sit down?” She motioned to the disorderly room. “I’ve got to go,” he replied. He looked about him—sitting down. A little smile played through Celia’s face and ran away. “I didn’t thank you for carrying the potatoes for me—that night—” she said politely. “You went off so quick I didn’t get a chance.” “I’m going mackereling tomorrow,” responded George. “You are!” Her eyes opened. “Did Mr. Bodet say you could?” His face darkened. “I’d have gone before—so far as he is concerned.” He straightened himself a little. “Oh—I—thought—he didn’t want you to go.” “He didn’t—but that isn’t what kept me.” “What was it—kept you, then?” She had seated herself and her hands, holding the dust-cloth, were crossed demurely in her lap. George looked at them. “I stayed because I thought I ought to,” he said. “I’d have gone.” She gave a little flit to the dust-cloth and folded it down. He turned his eyes away. “Likely enough you would—” he said, “you’re a woman—” “I don’t know what you mean by that!” She had got to her feet and was looking at him. “I don’t know just what I mean myself,” said George. “But I guess I didn’t mean any harm—women are just different, you know.... I’ve got to go now—” he said, crossing his legs. “You’ve got a nice boat,” said Celia. The teasing look had left her face. “Do you think so?” He flushed a little and lifted his eyes to the window. “Uncle William says she’s the best boat on the harbor,” said Celia. “Well—I guess she is.... He’s got a good one, too—mine’s bigger,” said George. “It’s a beautiful boat, I think,” said the girl. She had gone to the window and was looking down. The wind came in and blew past her curls a little and ruffled around through the room. “I’d like to take you out in her some day,” said George. “Would you!” She turned to him, with a quick little flutter of curls and the color dabbing her cheeks. “I’d love to go!” “All right.” He got up. He went toward the door slowly—as if fingers held him. The girl did not stir.... He turned at the door and looked at her—“Good-bye,” he said— “Good-bye.” She moved a step, “Oh—I—” He paused a minute—waiting. “I thank you for bringing the paper,” said Celia. “That’s all right.” He moved away down the path. She stood where he had left her—the dust-cloth in her hand, the little clear color in her cheeks. Slowly the look changed. By and by she went to the window and looked out. Down below, a young man had drawn a dory to the water’s edge and was shoving off. She watched him seat himself and pull out with long, easy strokes. Presently he looked up. He crossed the clumsy oars in one hand and lifted his hat. The dust-cloth fluttered a moment and was gone.