Uncle William nodded. “She come from Digby way, didn’t she?”
“Northeast o’ Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa’n’t even acquainted with her.”
Uncle William chuckled.
Andy glanced at the sun. “I must be gettin’ home. It’s supper-time.” His gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks set above its line gleamed red and white in the sun. “You won’t get that done to-night.” The tone was not acrid. It was almost sympathetic—for Andy.
Uncle William glanced at it placidly. “I reckon I shall. There’s a moon, you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be quite nice up here by moonlight.”
He set and watched Andy’s figure down the road. Then he took up the trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the horizon. It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little flames. The glow of color spread from north to south. A breeze had sprung up and ruffled the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to work. “Andy’s right—it’s goin’ to change.”
He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little house. By its light William put on the finishing touches.
VII
The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the chimney was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a stinging keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it. One almost listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long nights. Little snow fell, and it was soon dispersed—whirled away on the fierce blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and forth between woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A roaring fire warmed the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its depths. The pile of wood in the shed lowered fast, and the pile of money hoarded behind the loose brick in the chimney lowered with it—the money faster than the wood, perhaps. There was a widow with three children, a mile down the shore. Her husband had been drowned the year before, and there was no brick loose in her chimney to look behind as the woodpile diminished. Old Grandma Gruchy, too, who had outlived all her men folks and at ninety-three was still tough and hearty, had need of things.