They rowed up through the clear light. The harbor stretched away,
gleaming, to darkness. The cliffs rose on the right, somber and waiting.
Uncle William lifted his face. The little house on the cliff caught
a gleam and twinkled. The boat grated on the beach. There was a stiff
climb up the path, with long pauses for breath. Uncle William opened the
door. He moved back swiftly. A gray avalanche had descended upon him.
She clawed at his shoulder and perched there, looking down at him.

A smile overspread Uncle William's face. He put up a hand to the gray
fur, stroking it. "Now, don't that beat all!" he said. "She's been here
all along, like enough, Andy."

"Durned if I know," said Andy. He looked at her aggressively. "I hain't
seen hide nor hair of her for two weeks."

Juno returned the look, purring indifferently. She leaped from Uncle
William's shoulder, leading the way into the house, her back arched and
her tail erect; her toes scarcely touched the boards she trod upon.

She disappeared under the red lounge. In a moment her head
reappeared--with something dangling from the mouth. She laid it proudly
at Uncle William's feet.

He peered at it. "Ketched a mouse, hev ye? I reckoned she wouldn't
starve, Andy!" He beamed on him.

"That ain't a mouse," said Andy.

"Why, so 't ain't. Juno!" Uncle William's voice was stern. "You come