Uncle William, standing up over the sink, was looking for something. “What is it you want?” she asked. Uncle William dimbed down and peered under the sink. “I used to have a paintbrush,” he said. He looked about the room vaguely and helplessly— “Covered with red paint?” asked Celia. “—Mebbe ’twas red,” said Uncle William thoughtfully, “I do’ ’no’ when I used that paint-brash—But it’s a good brush and Benjy said they was short of brushes. I thought mebbe—” “It’s out behind the woodpile,” she said crisply, “I put it there yesterday—fifty old rags with it—I was going to burn them up,” she added, “but I didn’t get to it.” Her eyes danced. “They’re perfectly good paint rags, Celia.” Uncle William looked at her reproachfully. “I was tellin’ Benjy this morning I’d got a nice lot of rags for him. I do’ ’no’ what I’d ’a’ done if you ’d burned them up.” “There are plenty more around,” said the girl. She looked meaningly at a bit of wristband that showed below his sleeve. Uncle William tucked it hastily out of sight. “I gen’ally trim ’em off,” he said. “But I couldn’t find my scissors this morning—I thought the knife had cut it putty good?” He peered down at it distrustfully. “Knife!” The word was scornful—but the little look that followed him from the door held only gentleness and affection. Uncle William, outside the door, looked at the sky and the harbor, with the mackerel fleet sailing on it—and at the Jennie rocking below. Then his eye traveled, half guiltily, over the moor toward Benjy’s, and back.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. “No kind o’ day to—” He took a step toward Benjy’s house—another, and another, and moved briskly off up the road. Suddenly he turned, as if a hand had been laid on his shoulder, and strode toward the rocky path that led to the beach. A big smile held his face. “—No kind o’ day to paint,” he said softly as he dragged the dory to the water’s edge and shoved off. Five minutes later the Jennie had hoisted anchor and was off to the fleet. Benjy, painting with Gunnion up in the new house, looked out now and then from the window as if hoping to see a big figure rolling toward him along the white road. Celia, in the little house on the cliff, brought a roll of cloth from the shelf over the sink and undid it slowly. Inside was a large pair of scissors. She smiled a little as she took them up and spread out the cloth. It was a great garment, the size and shape of Uncle William. Sitting by the window, where the breeze blew in from the water, her thimble flew in the light. Now and then she glanced far out where the boats sailed. Then her eyes returned to her needle and she sewed with swift stitches... a little smile came and went on her face as the breeze came and went on the water outside. XXII