no had been
intrusted to him.

Andy grinned a sickly good-by. "Good-by, Willum; I'll do as well as
I can by her." He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The island
seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at home.
The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not
include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed
heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house, thinking
to shift the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused
sternly. "She wouldn't be comfortable, Andy. The' 's a good deal of soap
and water down to your house and she wouldn't like it. You can run up
two or three times, easy, to see she's all right. Mebbe you'll get fond
of her."

Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the
wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so
comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path
to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When she
saw who it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she
always jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the lounge
and tuned her back to the room, looking out of the window and blinking
from time to time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the
distance.

Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The
sun poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy's eyes rested on it
vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of presence.
Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood
by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and
blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze
returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He
drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something.
He went out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her
immovable gaze, stared out to sea.

IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring
warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There
was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed
vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell
the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he
watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the
shouting of the men, the hollow sound o