tretched figure of his guest. Presently
he said:

"Sir Graham!"

There was no reply.

"Sir Graham!"

He got up, crossed the little room and touched the shoulder of the
dreamer. Sir Graham started sharply and turned a frowning face.

"What is it?"

"The atmosphere is very cold and damp after the storm."

"You wish me to shut the window? I beg your pardon."

He drew in and shut it, then moved to the door.

"You are going out?" said Uniacke uneasily.

"Yes."

"I--I would not speak to the Skipper, if I were you. He is happier when
he is let quite alone."

"I want to see him. I want him to sit for me."

"To sit!" Uniacke repeated, with an accent almost of horror.

"Yes," said Sir Graham doggedly. "I have a great picture in my mind."

"But--"

"The Skipper's meeting with his drowned comrades, in that belfry tower.
He will stand with the ropes dropping from his hands, triumph in his
eyes. They will be seen coming up out of the darkness, grey men and
dripping from the sea, with dead eyes and hanging lips. And first among
them will be my wonder-child, on whom will fall a ray of light from a
wild moon, half seen through the narrow slit of the deep-set window."

"No, no!"

"What do you say?"

"Your wonder-child must not be there. Why should he? He is alive."

"You think so?"

Uniacke made no reply.

"I say, do you think so?"

"How can I know? It is impossible. But--yes, I think so."

The clergyman turned away. A sickness of the conscience overtook him
like physical pain. Sir Graham was by the door with his hand upon it.

"And yet," he said, "you do not believe in intuitions. Nothing tells
you whether that woman you loved is dead or living. You said that."

"Nothing."

"Then what should tell you whether Jack is dead or living?"

He turned and went out. Presently Uniacke saw his dark figure pass, like
a shadow, across the square of the window. The night grew more quiet by
slow degrees. The hush after the storm increased. And to the young
clergyman's unquiet nerves it seemed like a crescendo in music instead
of like a diminuendo, as sometimes seems the falling to sleep of a man
to a man who cannot sleep. The noise of the storm had been softer than
the sound of this increasing silence in which the church bells presently
died away. Uniacke was consumed by an apprehension that was almost like
the keen tooth of jealousy. For he knew that the Skipper had ceased from
his patient task and Sir Graham did