sh'--'Lead, kindly light.'"

"Ah!"

The exclamation came in a sigh, that might have been a murmur of relief
or of disappointment. Then there was a silence. The painter went over
again to the fire. Uniacke stood still where he was and looked on the
ground. He had told a deliberate lie. It seemed to grow as he thought of
it. And why had he told it? A sudden impulse, a sudden fear, had led him
into sin. A strange fancy had whispered to him, "What if that boy buried
by the wall yonder should be the wonder-child, the ragamuffin who looked
at the rainbow, the sea urchin, the spectre haunting your guest?" How
unlikely that was! And yet ships go far, and the human fate is often
mysteriously sad. It might be that the wonder-child was born to be
wrecked, to be cast up, streaming with sea-water on the strand of this
lonely isle. It might be that the eyes which worshipped the rainbow were
sightless beneath that stone yonder; that the hands which pointed to it
were folded in the eternal sleep. And, if so, was not the lie
justified? If so, could Peter Uniacke regret it? He saw this man who had
come into his lonely life treading along the verge of a world that made
him tremble in horror. Dared he lead him across the verge into the
darkness? And yet his lie troubled him, and he saw a stain spreading
slowly out upon the whiteness of his ardent soul. The painter turned
from the fire. His face was haggard and weary.

"I will go to bed," he said. "I must try to get some sleep even in the
storm."

He held out his thin hand. Uniacke took it.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night. I am sorry I have troubled you with my foolish history."

"It interested me deeply. By the way--what did you say your
wonder-child's name was, his full name?"

"Jack--Jack Pringle. What is it?"

"Nothing. That gust of wind startled me. Good-night."

The painter looked at Uniacke narrowly, then left the room.

The clergyman went over to the fire, leaned his arms on the mantelpiece,
and rested his head on them.

Presently he lifted his head, went softly to the door, opened it and
listened. He heard the tread of his guest above stairs, moving to and
fro about the spare room. He waited. After a while there was silence in
the house. Only the wind and the sea roared outside. Then Uniacke went
into the kitchen, pulled out a drawer in a dresser that stood by the
window, and took from it a chisel and a hammer. He carried them into the
passage, furtively put on