Uncle William glanced at her. “If I was you, I wouldn’t do any more tonight, Celia. I gen’ally chucked ’em under the sink—nights like this—” His gaze sought the window. “You ought to be getting back to Andy’s pretty quick—’fore it gets any darker. The fog’s coming in thick.” “I’m going—by and by. You through your supper?” She glanced at his plate. “Yes, I’m through.” He looked at the plate a little guiltily. “It was cooked nice,” he said. She smiled at him. “You didn’t eat much.” She carried the plate to the sink. Uncle William took up his hat. “I’ll be going down, I guess.” He went to the door—her glance followed him— “Uncle William—?” “Yes, Celia.” She was looking down at her hands. Uncle William came back. He reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. “There ain’t any danger ’t the Lord can’t take care of, Celia,” he said smiling. “I s’pose if I was takin’ care of him, I’d be worried—a night like this.... But, you see, the Lord’s got him.” “Yes, sir,” said Celia. “You go right home—and you go to sleep,” said Uncle William. “I’d rather stay here,” said the girl quickly, “this is home.” “Why, so ’tis,” said Uncle William, “—and the’ ain’t any reason why you can’t stay as well as not. You just lie down on the lounge here.... Juno’s good comp’ny and there’s the fire, and lights.... You won’t get lonesome.” He patted the shoulder and was gone. The girl finished the dishes and sat down in the big chair by the stove. Juno came and jumped on her lap, and the girl gathered her up, hiding her face in the thick fur.... Out in the harbor she could hear the stroke of the fog-bell, and the voices from the beach, muffled and vague. Something was in the air—her fingers tingled with it—the electricity in Juno’s thick fur—or was it something out there with the voices? She put down the cat and sat erect, gazing before her. Then she got up and took a little shawl from its nail and flitted from the room... down the steep path, stumbling and catching her breath—hurrying on, her face toward the sea and the little shawl gathered closer about her. A great form loomed from the mist and came close to her—“That you, Celia?” It was Uncle William’s voice, with a deep note in it, and she turned to him, catching at something in her throat, “I couldn’t stay up to the house—” It was a breathless cry— “There—there—You come right here.” He gathered her hand, laying it on his arm and patting it a little. “Now we ’ll run along,” he said, “and see what’s doing.” Down the beach they could hear the voices talking, calling—dying away. The fire had flared up, and the faces danced in and out.... “I kind o’ sense suthin’ coming,” said Uncle William.