She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in.
Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly—
A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a scornful hand at the wood in the box.
“‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was set, in the sunshine, with plates for two.
“Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he set the pail on its shelf.
She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.
“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William.
“Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it to the table, filling the glasses.
“Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William, glancing at the table.
“I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added pointedly.