Uncle William, with his big smile, moved back along the wharf—looking for someone.... He went toward the beach, swinging his lantern—far in the distance, towards Andy’s, something flitted, and paused, and went on, and drifted past the horizon, out of sight. Uncle William’s eye followed it, smiling. “Cur’us the way women is—running after ye, one minute—till you’re most scared—and then.”... He waved his lantern at the misty, moonlit hill, where the little figure flitted toward the sky. He shook his head.... Out at the end of the wharf there was calling and creaking, and the thumping of barrels and blocks of ice. Uncle William watched them a minute—then he turned toward the cliff. “What he ’ll need more ’n anything’s a good hot meal,” he said. He climbed to the little house and opened the door cautiously. Bodet, across the room, glanced at him. “He’s come,” he said. “Yes, he’s come.” Uncle William bustled about, getting out the kettle. “I thought mebbe you ’d be in bed.” He placed the kettle on the stove and went over to the cupboard. “In bed?” Bodet laughed—“I came up to get my coat. I don’t go to bed tonight—not while things are stirring down there.” Uncle William turned his head to listen—Sounds of thumping came up faintly. “‘Tis interesting,” he said. “The’s times when it seems’s if more things was happening on this island than anywheres in the world—big things, you know.... Where do you s’pose Celia put that fish?” He peered under a bowl and brought out a piece of pie and looked at it fondly and set it on the table and went back. “You might look down cellar,” suggested Bodet. With a sigh, Uncle William took up his lantern, and lifted a trap door in the floor. “I most hoped it wa ’n’t down cellar,” he said. He put his foot on the steep ladder and disappeared in inches.... He emerged triumphant. “The’s quite a lot o’ things down there—I didn’t know where she kep’ ’em.” “Just as lief you didn’t,” said Bodet. Uncle William chuckled. “She looks after me putty well. I don’t believe I’ve over e’t once since she come!” He surveyed the table. “You going to make coffee?” asked Bodet. Uncle William looked at him. “You ’d like some, wouldn’t you, Benjy?” “I shouldn’t object,” said Bodet, “—if you’re making it.” “Well, I might’s well make some—’twon’t take long—if you ’ll go fetch a pail of water.” Benjy laughed and took up the pail. Uncle William watched him benignantly. “—And you might kind o’ holler to George—tell him to come up when he’s done.” “All right.” Bodet departed with his pail and Uncle William pottered about, singing a little, a kind of rolling chant, and grinding coffee—measuring it with careful eye.... “She couldn’t ’a’ run faster if the ’d been snakes after her.” He chuckled into the coffee pot and looked up—Benjy had come in. “He says he ’ll be right up,” he said, finding a place for his pail on the sink.