“William and Benjamin.” She said the names with slow pleasure, smiling at his puzzled face. “It all came out when I told him that I knew you and that Uncle William lived here. He saw in a flash--everything! We started next day.” He had put an arm about her, guardingly. “We’ll go hunt up a priest,” he said. “Now?” “At once!” decisively. “Uncle William might think I needed more discipline.” “You’re looking very well.” She was gazing at him with fond eyes. “I _am_ well.” He stretched out his arms. “I could conquer the world.” “We’ll sail round it.” She nodded to the boat that was anchored off the island. “She is ours--for as long as we want her.” He stared at the boat and raised a glance to the cliff. “And what will _he_ do?” “M. Curie? He builds for himself a house, for himself--and for us.” She half chanted the words in sheer delight. “A house--here--for himself--and for us!” His glance took in the bare, stern grandeur. “It will be very near heaven.” “Very near. Come, let us go.” They climbed the steep path, with many pauses to look back on the gleaming bay and the boat riding at anchor--the boat that was to carry them away to the ends of the earth. “We will go to St. Petersburg,” said Sergia, watching the shining light. “And Italy.” “And build castles there.” “Castles! And then we will come home at last--” “Home!” He said the word under his breath. They had come close to the little house. Through the open door they saw the red room,--half in shadow, half in light,--and in the red room the two old men looking at each other. Uncle William saw them first and got to his feet, his big face filled with welcome. “Come in, my dear.” He took the girl’s face between his hands, looking down into it with gentle delight. “We’re glad you’ve come,” he said slowly. “It was jest about time.” He studied the face. “We want you to feel to home,” he went on. “‘Most everybody does feel to home, that comes here.” He bent and kissed the face with rough tenderness. Juno, from her perch, jumped down and rubbed a sidewise welcome along the gray skirt. The girl stooped to stroke her. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. She brushed them hastily aside. Uncle William, from his height, looked down on them benignly. “You needn’t mind those, my dear. Good salt water never hurt anybody yet--on sea or land. You do it all you want to.” The girl laughed out. And the music of her laugh filled the room. The twilight was lighted with it. Down below the tide came in slowly, lapping the stones. Across the harbor a single star shone out. Uncle William glanced across to it. “Time to light up,” he said. He took down the lantern from its place and lighted it with clumsy, careful fingers, setting it in the window. Then he surveyed the little room and his guests, a look of affection in his big face. “Must be ’most time for supper,” he said. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee