f land where she
dwelt with God.

I think I must have dozed a little after this, for I was suddenly roused
by Polly's cheery voice, cheery in spite of her bad night,--

'Have a cup of tea, sir, it'll do you good. You've not slept over well,
Duncan says. I'll put it down by your door.'

I jumped out of bed and brought it in, feeling very grateful to Polly,
and I drank it before I dressed. That's just like a Yorkshire woman, I
thought. My mother came from Yorkshire.

'I think it must have been nightmare I had last night, Polly,' I said as
I finished my breakfast, and began to put all in order for my morning's
work.

[Illustration]

Chapter VII

OVER THE LINE

I was at my painting early the next morning, for the sun was shining
brightly, and the air was wonderfully clear. My portrait of little Jack
sitting in the boat promised to be a great success. As I was hard at
work upon it that day, I heard a voice behind me.

'I never thought my little lad would figure in the Royal Academy,' said
the voice.

It was the voice of Jack's father--the voice which had moved me so
deeply, the voice which had made me tremble, only the day before. Even
as he spoke I felt inclined to run away, lest he should ask me again
that terrible question which had been ringing in my ears ever since.
Even as I talked to him about my picture, and even as he answered in
pleasant and friendly tones, through them all and above them all came
the words which were burnt in upon my memory: 'What are the depths, the
fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?'

'I hope my children are not troublesome to you,' he said.

'Oh no,' I answered; 'I love to have them here, and Jack and I are great
friends. Do you know,' I went on, 'he took me into your study the other
day? I am afraid I was taking a great liberty; but the little man would
hear of no refusal--he wanted me to see the old barrel-organ.'

'What, my dear old organ!' he answered. 'Yes, Jack is nearly as fond of
it as his father is.'

'His father?' I replied, for it seemed strange to me that a man of his
years should care for what appeared to me scarcely better than a broken
toy.

'That organ has a history,' he said, as he noticed my surprise; 'if you
knew the history, you would not wonder that I love it. I owe all I am in
this world, all I hope to be in the world to come, to that poor old
organ. Some day, when you have time to listen, perhaps you may like to
hear the sto