The man laughed out.  “I was thinking of it,” he said.

Uncle William leaned forward, looking at him.  “What are you so set on buyin’ my place for?  It’s a God-forsaken spot—­most folks would call it.  Andy does.”

“I like it,” said the man.

“So do I,” said Uncle William.

The Frenchman waited a minute.  Then he turned a little, looking into Uncle William’s face.  “Did you ever see be before?” he asked slowly.

Uncle William returned the look in full measure.  “You ain’t forgot I saw you in New York—­’long in the spring?”

“I don’t mean that.  I mean before—­years ago.”  The man’s voice was mellow.

Uncle William studied the thin face and looked over the thin legs.  “No, I hain’t ever seen ye,” he said.  “And yet the’ ‘s suthin’ about ye,”—­the man uncrossed his legs,—­“suthin’ that keeps kind o’ pullin’ on me.”  Uncle William rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully.  “You ever seen me?” he demanded.

The man’s eyes laughed.  “Hundreds of times.”

“You hev?” Uncle William sat up.  “Where?”

“Right here.”

“In this house?”

“Well, around here,” said the man, “on these rocks and near by.  I lived here once.  I dote on these rocks—­every one.”  He waved a hand at the landscape.

Uncle William fixed him with stern eye.  “You hain’t ever lived here,” he said slowly.  “You don’t mean to lie.”  His gaze grew kindlier.  “You’re jest romancin’.”  He brought it out with unction.

The Frenchman stared.  Then he laughed out.  “Well done!  I can’t fight you for that.”  He leaned forward.  “Who lived this side of Gunnion’s when you were a boy?” he asked.

Uncle William paused.  He looked again at the face with its lifted eyebrows and pointed beard.  He shook his head.  A light grew in his face slowly—­he started forward.  “Not Bodet?” he said eagerly.  “Not little Benjy Bodet?” He stared again.

The man laughed musically.  “Right.”  He stood up, holding out his hand.  “I thought you would know me.”

Uncle William took it slowly.  He studied the thin, keen face.  “Benjy Bodet,” he said.  “I’d know you—­much as you’ve changed—­I’d know you!  Set right down and tell me all about it.”

“All?” said the man.  He laughed again, looking contentedly about the room.  “It will take some time.”

“You’ll have to stay quite a while,” said Uncle William.

The man nodded.  “I mean to.  I’ve wanted to come back ever since the day we sailed for France.”

“You was twelve year old that summer,” said Uncle William.  “Your folks come into property, didn’t they, over there?”

“Yes—­on my mother’s side.  We took her name.  I was sick for months after we got there—­homesick, cooped up in rooms.”

“You poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him.  Affection was in his eyes, and memory.  “You was al’ays a kind o’ peaked little thing,” he said reflectively.  “You hain’t changed much—­when you come to look.  Take off your whiskers and slick up your hair and fetch down your eyebrows a little—­jest about the same.”