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.