Uncle William, standing up over the sink, was looking for something.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
Uncle William dimbed down and peered under the sink. “I used to have a paintbrush,” he said. He looked about the room vaguely and helplessly—
“Covered with red paint?” asked Celia.
“—Mebbe ’twas red,” said Uncle William thoughtfully, “I do’ ’no’ when I used that paint-brash—But it’s a good brush and Benjy said they was short of brushes. I thought mebbe—”
“It’s out behind the woodpile,” she said crisply, “I put it there yesterday—fifty old rags with it—I was going to burn them up,” she added, “but I didn’t get to it.” Her eyes danced.
“They’re perfectly good paint rags, Celia.” Uncle William looked at her reproachfully. “I was tellin’ Benjy this morning I’d got a nice lot of rags for him. I do’ ’no’ what I’d ’a’ done if you ’d burned them up.”
“There are plenty more around,” said the girl. She looked meaningly at a bit of wristband that showed below his sleeve.
Uncle William tucked it hastily out of sight. “I gen’ally trim ’em off,” he said. “But I couldn’t find my scissors this morning—I thought the knife had cut it putty good?” He peered down at it distrustfully.
“Knife!” The word was scornful—but the little look that followed him from the door held only gentleness and affection.