my L1,000. I hugged myself and told him wild stories
of bold men on the sea. Uniacke, do you believe in a personal devil?"

"I do," replied the young clergyman, simply.

"Well, if there is one, depend upon it he sometimes requires an
introduction before he can make a soul's acquaintance. I effected the
introduction between him and my wonder-child when I sat in the twilight
and told Jack those tales of the sea. The devil came to the boy in my
studio, and I opened the door and bowed him in. And once he knew the
boy, he stayed with him, Uniacke, and whispered in his ear--'Desert your
duty. Life calls you. The sea calls you. Go to it. Desert your duty!'
Even a dirty little London boy can have a duty and be aware of it, I
suppose. Eh?"

"Yes. I think that. But--"

"Wait a moment. I've nearly finished my tale, though I'm living the
sequel to it at this moment. One day I completed my picture; the last
touch was given. I stood back, I looked at my canvas. I felt I had done
well; my sea urchin was actually what I had imagined. I had succeeded in
that curious effort--to accomplish which many of us give our lives--in
the effort to project perfectly my thought, to give the exactly right
form to my imagination. I exulted. Yes, I had one grand overwhelming
moment of exultation. Then I turned from my completed picture. 'Jack,'
I cried out, 'little Jack, I've made you famous. D'you know what that
means?'

"I took the little chap by the shoulders and placed him before the
picture. 'See yourself,' I added. The boy stared at the sea urchin, at
those painted eyes full of the sea wonder, at those parted lips, that
mouth whispering to the sea. His nose twisted slightly.

"'That ain't me,' he said. 'That ain't me.'

"I looked down at him, and knew that he spoke the truth; for already the
wonder-child was fading, even had faded. And a little adventurer, a true
boy, stood before me, a boy to pull ropes, lend a hand at an oar,
whistle in the rigging, gaze with keen dancing eyes through a cold dawn
to catch the first sight of a distant land. I looked, understood, didn't
care; although the poetry of wonder had faded into the prose of mere
desire.

"'It isn't you, Jack?' I answered. 'Well, perhaps not. But it is what
you were, what you may be again some day.'

"He shook his head.

"'No, it ain't me. Go on tellin' about them pirits.'

"And, full of gladness, a glory I had never known before, I went on till
it was dark. I said good-by t