k of not being afraid
to die. I've just been at a death-bed, and--'

'And you felt you wouldn't like to be there yourself,' Duncan went on,
as I stopped. 'Well, maybe not, it comes nat'ral to us, sir; we're born
with that feeling, I often think, and we can no more help it than we can
help any other thing we're born with. But what I mean to say is, I'm not
afraid of what comes _after_ death. It may be a dark tunnel, sir,
but there's light at the far end!'

[Illustration]

Chapter IV

WHAT ARE YOU?

On Saturday of that week the sun shone brightly, and I was up betimes,
had an early breakfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as
possible. I had not been painting long before I again heard voices above
me, the same childish voices that I had heard before.

'_You_ give it to him,' said one voice.

'No, Marjorie, I daren't; you take it.'

'You ought not to be afraid, because you're a boy,' said the first
speaker; 'father says boys ought always to be brave.'

'But you're big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little
people!'

There was a long, whispered conversation after this, and I could not
distinguish the words which were spoken. But presently a small piece of
pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette.
I caught it up quickly, to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I
saw there was something printed on it. It ran thus:--

_There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday Morning at
11 o'clock, when you are earnestly requested to be present_.

_Subject_: WHAT ARE YOU?

'Thank you,' I said aloud. 'Who sent me this?'

There was no answer at first, then a little voice just above me said,
'Both of us, sir.'

'Come down and talk to me,' I said; 'I can't talk to children whom I
can't see. Come out here and look at my picture.'

They came out presently hand in hand, a little girl of five in a blue
tam-o'-shanter cap, a pale pink frock, and a white pinafore, and a boy
of three, the merriest, most sturdy little fellow I thought I had ever
seen. His face was as round and rosy as an apple, his eyes were dark
blue, and had the happiest and most roguish expression that it would be
possible for eyes to have. When the child laughed (and whenever was he
not laughing?), every part of his face laughed together. His eyes began
it, his lips followed suit, even his nose was pressed into the service.
If a sunbeam could be caught and dressed up