ood. He must be wise, he thought; he must be wise and
very wary that fatherly helpfulness might work a cure.

The boy had failed, and his failure had not been a thing of
unfortuitous chance, not an incident of catastrophe, but a significant
expression of character. Terry Lute was a coward, deep down, through
and through: he had not lapsed in a panic; he had disclosed an abiding
fear of the sea. He was not a coward by any act; no mere wanton folly
had disgraced him, but the fallen nature of his own heart. He had
failed; but he was only a lad, after all, and he must be helped to
overcome. And there he sat, snuggled close to the fire, sobbing now,
his face in his hands. Terry Lute knew--that which Skipper Tom did not
yet know--that he had nurtured fear of the sea for the scandalous
delight of imposing it upon others in the exercise of a devilish
impulse and facility.

And he was all the more ashamed. He had been overtaken in iniquity; he
was foredone.

"Terry, lad," said Skipper Tom, gently, "you've done ill the day."

"Ay, sir."

"I 'low," Skipper Tom apologized, "that you isn't very well."

"I'm not ailin', sir," Terry whimpered.

"An I was you," Skipper Tom admonished, "I'd not spend time in
weepin'."

"I'm woebegone, sir."

"You're a coward, God help you!" Skipper Tom groaned.

"Ay, sir."

Skipper Tom put a hand on the boy's knee. His voice was very gentle.

"There's no place in the world for a man that's afeard o' the sea," he
said. "There's no work in the world for a coward t' do. What's fetched
you to a pass like this, lad?"

"Broodin', sir."

"Broodin', Terry? What's that?"

"Jus' broodin'."

"Not that damned picture, Terry?"

"Ay, sir."

"How can that be, lad?" It was all incomprehensible to Skipper Tom.
"'Tis but an unreal thing."

[Illustration: "'You're a coward, God help you!' Skipper Tom
groaned."]

Terry looked up.

"'Tis _real_!" he blazed.

"'Tis but a thing o' fancy."

"Ay, fancy! A thing o' fancy! 'Tis fancy that _makes_ it real."

"An' you--a coward?"

Terry sighed.

"Ay, sir," said he, ashamed.

"Terry Lute," said Skipper Tom, gravely, now perceiving, "is you been
fosterin' any fear o' the sea?"

"Ay, sir."

Skipper Tom's eye flashed in horrified understanding. He rose in
contempt and wrath.

"_Practicin'_ fear o' the sea?" he demanded.

"Ay, sir."

"T' sketch a picture?"

Terry began to sob.

"There wasn't no other way," he wailed.

"God forgi