BODET had taken largely to sitting about on nail-kegs, listening to the men talk and joining in now and then.... The little fretted look had left his eyes, and his voice when he spoke had a quiet note.
“You’re doin’ fine, Benjy!” Uncle William confided to him one morning. It was the week before Christmas. A fire had been built in the big living-room and the men had gathered about it, talking and laughing and thawing out. A fierce wind from the east was blowing and fine sleet drove against the windows. The room had a homelike sense—shut in from the storm.
“It’s a great thing to have building goin’ on, a day like this—when the’s a big storm from the east,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “If ’tw’an’t for the building, you might not have a soul in to see you all day.” He glanced complacently at the group about the fire.
“Costs me twelve-fifty a day,” said Bodet dryly.
“Wuth it, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, “I do’ ’no’ what money’s for if ye can’t be happy with it....” He glanced affectionately at the quiet face opposite him. “You’re getting happy every day, Benjy.... I do’ ’no’s I ever see anybody get along as fast as you do—gettin’ happy.”
The tall man laughed out. “It’s a choice between that and everlasting misery—on your old Island,” he said.
“Yes, I guess ’tis.” Uncle William’s voice was contented.
The group about the fire broke up and moved off. Uncle William’s eye followed them—“They’re going to work now. You ’ll get quite a piece done today—” He came back to the fire. “I was thinking—how ’d it do to have dinner up here!” He was looking about the room.
Bodet’s glance followed his—“Who ’ll cook it?” he said.
“We could send for Celia,” said Uncle William. “Gunnion’s team’s out in the shed—he didn’t unhitch. We could send down, easy enough, and fetch her up—dinner and all—and she could cook it out in your kitchen—” Uncle William beamed. “You ’d like that, wouldn’t ye?”