“I’ve got it here—somewheres—” murmured Uncle William. “Yes—here ’tis.... You just give this to Celia, will you?” He held out a torn envelope. “You tell her to put it behind the clock for me.” Uncle William’s face was impassive.
The young man eyed it a minute....
“All right.” He held out his hand. “I wasn’t expecting to go by your place. But I can—if you want me to.” He tucked the note in his pocket and moved off.
Uncle William looked after him with a kindly smile—“Just hates to do it—worst way,” he murmured.... “Don’t none of us know what’s good for us, I reckon—no more ’n he does.”
Celia, moving about the room like a bird, paused a moment and listened. Then she went cautiously to the window and pushed back the red curtain and looked out... her eyes followed the line of road, with eager, glancing look—little smiles in them and bubbles of laughter. She dropped the curtain and went back to her work, shaking out pillows and dusting the quaint room, with intent, peering looks that darted at the dust and shook it out and rebuked it as it flew.
A shadow blocked the door, but she did not look up. She held a pillow in her hand, looking severely at a rip in the side and Uncle William’s feathers fluffing out.... The young man scraped his feet a little on the stone step.
She looked up then—the severe look still in her face. “Mr. Benslow is not here,” she said.
“I know he is not here.” He stepped over the sill. “He asked me to give you this.” He fetched the foolish paper out of his pocket grimly and looked at it and handed it to her.
She took it gravely. “What is it for?” she asked.
“He said you were to put it behind the clock—I don’t know what it’s for—” he said a little gruffly.