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.

Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping
a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a
full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o'clock of
winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and
the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an
uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the
stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered
about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had
women folks to do for him.

As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist--sometimes gay
and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the
letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. "He
don't seem to be makin' much money," he would say from time to time. The
letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle.
"He's got another done," Uncle William would respond: "that makes three;
that's putty good." Andy had ceased to ask about the money for the
boat--when it was coming. He seemed to have accepted the fact that there
would never be any,