in.

As he reached the island, the grey pall slightly lifted and light broke
through the mist. He came up out of the sea, and, whipping the wet and
weary horse, drove along the narrow lanes towards the Rectory. But when
he came within hail of the churchyard all his abnormal exultation was
suddenly quenched, and the oppressive sense of threatening danger which
had for so long a time persecuted him, returned with painful force. He
saw ahead of him Sir Graham seated before his easel painting. Behind the
artist, bending down, his eyes fixed intently on the canvas, his huge
hands gripping one another across his chest, stood the mad Skipper. As
the wheels of the cart ground the rough road by the churchyard wall, Sir
Graham looked up and smiled.

"I'm doing a last day's work," he called.

Uniacke stopped the cart and jumped out. The Skipper never moved. His
eyes never left the canvas. He seemed utterly absorbed.

"You are not working on the picture?" said Uniacke hastily.

"No."

"Thank God."

"Why d'you say that?"

"I--the subject was so horrible."

"This is only a study. I shall leave the picture as I am leaving the
Island. Perhaps some day--" He paused. Then he said: "I call this 'Sea
Change.' Go indoors. In about half an hour I will come and fetch you to
see it. Where will you be?"

"In my little room at the back of the house. I have some letters to
write."

"I'll come there. Don't disturb me, till then. I think the picture will
be strange--and I hope beautiful."

And again he smiled. Reassured, Uniacke made his way into the Rectory.
He sat down at his writing-table, took up his pen and wrote a few words
of a letter. But his mind wandered. The pen dropped on the table and he
fell into thought. It was strangely still weather, and there was a
strange stillness in his heart and conscience, a calm that was sweet to
him. He felt the relief of coming to an end after a journey that had not
been without dangers. For, during his intercourse with Sir Graham, he
had often walked upon the edge of tragedy. Now he no longer looked down
from that precipice. He leaned his arm on the table, among the litter of
papers connected with parish affairs, and rested his head in his hand.
Almost unconsciously, at that moment he began to rejoice at his own
boldness in deviating from the strict path of uncompromising rectitude.
For he thought of it as boldness, and of his former unyielding adherence
to the principles he believed to be