'That's just where it is, sir, Polly and little John, bless 'em; and all the time the wind's raging, and the waves is coming right over the boat, I'm thinking of my poor lass at home, and how every gust of wind will be sweeping right over her heart, and how she'll be kneeling by little John's bed, praying God to bring his daddy safe home again. And I know, sir, as well as I know anything, that when God Almighty hears and answers her prayer, and brings me safe to land, Polly and little John will be standing on yon rocks a-straining their eyes for the first sight of the boats, and then a-running down almost into the water to welcome me home again. Yes, it makes a sight o' difference to a married man, sir; doesn't it, now? It isn't the dying, ye understand, it's the leaving behind as I think of. I'm not afraid to die,' he added humbly and reverently, as he took off his oilskin cap. 'I know whom I have believed.' 'You're a plucky fellow, Duncan,' I said, 'to talk of not being afraid to die. I've just been at a death-bed, and--' 'And you felt you wouldn't like to be there yourself,' Duncan went on, as I stopped. 'Well, maybe not, it comes nat'ral to us, sir; we're born with that feeling, I often think, and we can no more help it than we can help any other thing we're born with. But what I mean to say is, I'm not afraid of what comes _after_ death. It may be a dark tunnel, sir, but there's light at the far end!' [Illustration] Chapter IV WHAT ARE YOU? On Saturday of that week the sun shone brightly, and I was up betimes, had an early breakfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as possible. I had not been painting long before I again heard voices above me, the same childish voices that I had heard before. '_You_ give it to him,' said one voice. 'No, Marjorie, I daren't; you take it.' 'You ought not to be afraid, because you're a boy,' said the first speaker; 'father says boys ought always to be brave.' 'But you're big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little people!' There was a long, whispered conversation after this, and I could not distinguish the words which were spoken. But presently a small piece of pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette. I caught it up quickly, to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I saw there was something printed on it. It ran thus:-- _There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday Morning at 11 o'clock, when you are earnestly requested to be present_. _Subject_: WHAT ARE YOU? 'Thank you,' I said aloud. 'Who sent me this?' There was no answer at first, then a little voice just above me said, 'Both of us, sir.' 'Come down and talk to me,' I said; 'I can't talk to children whom I can't see. Come out here and look at my picture.'