He watched the young man down the rocky path, trundling his wheel beside him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big hand along Juno’s back, as it arched to his touch, smoothing it slowly.
Andy looked at him with sheepish grin. “Where ’d you put ’em, Willum?” he said.
Uncle William glanced out of the window at the dimpling harbor. A little breeze blew across it and the waves darkened and ran. He smiled at them and then at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest mended,’ so I took ’em down and heaved ’em. It hurt Juno some—” He smoothed the gray back gently, “But she feels all right about it now, I guess, same as we do.”
V
UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path. Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth. “‘Morning, George,” he called.
The young man came on, with even, swift steps that did not hurry. He held an envelope in his hand. “Letter for you, Uncle,” he said.
Uncle William laid down the frying-pan and held out his hand. A mild and benevolent curiosity held the big face. His look welcomed the whole world shut up in the bit of envelope. He took it and studied the inscription and pushed up his spectacles, looking at the young man with satisfaction. “Set down, Georgie,” he said—“It’s from Celia.”
“Who’s Celia?” asked the young man. He seated himself on a rock and plucked a stem of grass, taking it in his teeth.