It dimpled a little. “He told me he was going out—when he brought the paper yesterday,” she said. “It’s behind the clock—when you want it,” she added.
“I don’t want it—not now,” said Uncle William absently.
Celia returned to her work and Uncle William was left in the clear, open peace of the morning. Along the horizon the boats crawled back and forth, and down on the beach the clutter and hurry of men and oars came up, fresh. He bent forward and watched it all—his big, round face full of sympathy and happy comment....
“Much as ever George ’ll make out to set this morning,” he said. His eye scanned the distant boats that crept along the horizon with cautious tread. “He ought to ’a’ known Steve Burton ’d be late. Steve ’d miss his own funeral—if they ’d let him.” Uncle William chuckled..... The great, dark boat had lifted sail and was moving a little, feeling her way to meet the mysterious power that waited somewhere out in the open—Uncle William watched her swing to the wind and lift her wings....
He stepped to the door—“Oh, Celia—Want to see suthin’ pretty?”
The girl went to the window and looked out. She gazed at the sky, and swept the horizon with a look. “Anything different from usual?” she said. Her eye kept away from the harbor.
Uncle William came and stood behind her, looking down. “Just look down there a minute, Celia.” He took the curly head in his hands and bent it gently.
She gazed at the boat—pacing slowly with the deepening wind—and her eyes glinted a little.
“Looks nice, don’t it?” said Uncle William.
She nodded, her fingers on her apron traveling with absent, futile touch. “I always like to see boats start off,” she said happily.... “Look, how she takes the wind—!” She leaned forward, her eyes glowing, her face lighted with the same quick, inner light that touched the breeze and the sails.