Up in the little house on the cliff, the ship’s lantern was lighted—and a dull eye glowed at the night.... In the room, the girl moved with light feet, stopping now and then and bending her head for steps on the path or for some sound of the sea. She crossed once to the window and put her hands about her face and looked out into the grayness. She drew back with a little quick breath, and went again to her work. On the beach, men strained their ears to listen... oar-locks creaked faintly, marking the fog. The beach listened and drew to its edge.... “That’s William!” “Uncle William’s come!”—The children rushed down the beach and stood alert at the fog. The oar-locks creaked leisurely in and the big form grew to them—over the dory’s bow. Hands reached out and drew it up on the sand as the wave receded. Uncle William stepped out, without hurry—“No, I didn’t find him—He must ’a’ gone out considabul far—put in-shore, like enough.” He drew a hand down his length of face and flicked the moisture from it. “Putty thick,” he said cheerfully. The children drifted off, with running shouts. Someone threw fresh staves on the fire and the flames leaped up, playing against the great curtain of fog and showing strange shapes. The faces took on mystery, and moved in the leaping light—as if they were all a big play. The calling tones deepened to the fog and the even-clanging bell rang its note—and stopped—and rang again. Men went home to eat, and came back to the beach, and Uncle William climbed to the house on the cliff. “It’s been a putty good day,” he said placidly. “They’ve had quite a run o’ luck—forty-fifty barrel, all told, I should think.” “Are they all in?” said the girl. She had placed the plate of fried fish before him, and stood beside him, waiting—a wistful look in her face. “Where’s Benjy?” asked Uncle William, helping himself to fish with leisurely hand. “Down to the beach—hours ago,” said the girl. “Um-m—I didn’t see him.... Yes, they’re all in now—except George. He ’ll be along pretty quick, I guess.” He chewed with easy relish, reaching down a hand to Juno as she rubbed alongside. “She had her supper?” he asked. “No, sir—I was waiting for you—I guess I kind of forgot her, too,” said the girl with a little laugh. “Here, Juno—!” Juno walked across with stately mien to the plate of scraps. The girl lifted a sober face. “You going back down to the beach, Uncle William!” “Well—mebbe I’ll go down a little while, byme-by. I didn’t leave the Jennie all snug—You want some wood!” He peered into the box. “I brought some in—while I was waiting.” “You hadn’t ought to ’a’ done that, Celia—” “I hadn’t anything else to do,” said the girl, “and I was tired—waiting.” She bent over the sink, scrubbing vigorously at the kettle.