The gloom in Andy's face lifted.

"I've thought about that a good many times," went on Uncle William.
"It's cur'us. You get to know folks that's a good deal nicer than your
own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled
with,--and you get to know 'em a good deal better some ways--but they
ain't the same as your own."

Andy's face had grown almost mild. "I guess that's right," he said. "Now
there's Harr'et--I've lived with Harr'et a good many year."

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