and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he ’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring, they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone... and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’ nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....” The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said. “Yes,’.was home,” said Uncle William contentedly. “Of course, any place where you happen to be is home,—but if there’s somebody there waitin’ for ye and needin’ ye, it’s more homier than any of ’em.” Andy got slowly to his feet. “Harr’et’s waitin’ for me,” he said, “and I might’s well go—” He cast a lingering look at the table. “You boys going to sit up all night, talking and gabbling!” “Why, no, Andy. I do ’no ’s we ’ll light up,” responded Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ of going down to look after the boats a little and then we ’ll go to bed—like enough.” “Well, good night,” said Andy, “I’ve got to go,” “Good night, Andy.” They sat listening to his footfalls on the rocky path below. “He’s a good boy,” said Uncle William. “He ’ll stan’ a lot—without whimpering—but he don’t know it—no more ’n that cat there.” Juno rose and stretched her back, yawning. Then she walked indifferently to the door and passed out—as if a summons had come to her from the night out there. IV UNCLE WILLIAM finished the last saucepan and carried it, with careful flourish, to the stove, where the top was piled high with pots and kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and deposited it with cautious touch. Then he stood back and surveyed the topply pile with hopeful eye. Benjamin, seated on a rock outside, was whistling softly. “You most ready, William,” he called. Uncle William glanced hastily toward the window, then his glance traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You wait a minute whilst I chuck two-three more things out o’ sight.”