est in my work spring? May it not be that he vaguely feels as if my
picture were connected with his sorrow?"

Uniacke shook his head.

"I am not sure that it is impossible," continued Sir Graham. "To-morrow
I begin to make studies for the figures. If he comes to me again, I
shall sketch him in."

Uniacke's uneasiness increased. Something within him revolted from the
association of his guest and the Skipper. The hidden link between them
was a tragedy, a tragedy that had wrecked the reason of the one, the
peace of the other. They did not know of this link, yet there seemed
horror in such a companionship as theirs, and the clergyman was seized
with fear.

"You are going to draw your figures from models?" he said, slowly,
speaking to cover his anxiety, and speaking idly enough.

The painter's reply struck away his uncertainty, and set him face to
face with a most definite dread.

"I shall have models," said Sir Graham, "for all the figures except for
little Jack. I can draw him from memory. I can reproduce his face. It
never leaves me."

"What!" said Uniacke. "You will paint an exactly truthful portrait of
him then?"

"I shall; only idealised by death, dignified, weird, washed by the sad
sea."

"The Skipper watched you while you were painting. He saw all you were
doing."

"Yes. And I think he'll come again."

"But then--he'll--he'll see--"

The clergyman stopped short.

"See--see what?" Sir Graham asked.

"Himself," Uniacke replied, evasively. "When you paint him with the
ropes dropping from his hands. May it not agitate, upset him, to see
himself as he stands ringing those bells each night? Ah! there they
are!"

It was twilight now, cold, and yellow, and grim; twilight of winter. And
the pathetic, cheerless appeal of the two bells stole out over the
darkening sea.

"Perhaps it may agitate him," Sir Graham said. "What then? To strike a
sharp blow on the gates of his mind might be to do him a good service. A
shock expelled his reason. Might not a shock recall it?"

"I can't tell," Uniacke said. "Such an experiment might be dangerous, it
seems to me, very dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

Uniacke turned away rather abruptly. He could not tell the painter what
was in his mind, his fear that the mad Skipper might recognise the
painted face of the dead boy, for whom he waited, for whom, even at that
moment, the bells were ringing. And if the Skipper did recognise this
face that he knew so well--what then? Wh