“You set right down,” said Uncle William.
The man looked at him with raised brows. “You want me?”
“Want you? Why shouldn’t I want you!” roared Uncle William. “I’ve been waitin’ for you sixty year and odd. Set down!”
The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his legs.
A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring.
He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses to place upon his nose, surveying it.
“Now, don’t that show?” demanded Uncle William. “She don’t take to strangers—never. Look at her.” She was kneading her paws in the thin knees, delicately, with treading softness.
The Frenchman’s eyes lighted. “She’s your cat?”
“She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If she says you’re goin’ to stay, you’re goin’ to. You won’t leave here, not till you’ve built over there on the old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the horizon. “I’ll help ye build,” he exclaimed. “They ain’t nuthin’ I like better’n potterin’ around and tellin’ folks what to do. I can’t fish till the Jennie’s done and I’ll turn to and help. The’ ’s a girl I can get to do the work. She’s a good cook, and she’ll come down and do for us—be glad to.” He rubbed his hands, beaming upon his guest.
The Frenchman stroked the gray fur with slow touch. “I might take the young man’s place,” he said thoughtfully.