"Yes; such minds do not stick at any conventional things. He deserted her; he fled with another. The other was rich and--so I understand--beautiful. She had a yacht waiting to carry her and her poet away--think of the romance of it, think of the romance of it! They reached the yacht, it appears, and set sail for their paradise under a moonlit sky. Imagine the scene! Then, in the midst of it all comes grim Fate in the shape of a lumbering coasting steamer and cuts them in two. A survivor has already declared that he saw Brian Carlaw and the woman go down locked in each other's arms. My poor boy--he has carried himself well before the world to the last!" "Do you know," asked the captain with some sternness, "that his wife is here, within a few yards of us?" "I was not aware of it," replied Mr. Carlaw, glancing about him. "My sole reason for coming here--to this place of his birth--and at so early a moment is because I feel that something should be done for him; that they should understand the loss they and the world have sustained, and should fitly mark their grief. From whom could the news come so appropriately as from the father who loved him and sacrificed so much for him? That is my real errand. But you say that she is here?" "Yes," replied the captain; "she came here yesterday--I suppose when she learned that he had deserted her. She must be told of this." "Yes, I suppose she must," replied Mr. Carlaw hurriedly. "Of course, she takes no real or great place in this sorrowful business; my son stands alone, and the name of the lady with whom he died will naturally and inevitably be linked with his. A few will be shocked; to the majority, I trust, the position will appear appropriate. Personally, I am sorry for the wife--but she does not touch the story." "Thank God for that!" muttered the captain to himself. Aloud he said, "I must tell her, and must see what is to be done for her, poor child!" "Ah, I remember you as a man of a tender nature, my dear captain," said Mr. Robert Carlaw, gazing at the sky. "For the present I have other work on hand; it happens, on occasion, that the dead are more important than the living. And in the glory of my dead son, I--his unfortunate father--may chance to cut a figure at last." He started to whistle as he turned away, but remembered himself in time, and walked with a drooping head and a less jaunty step than usual. The captain looked after him for a moment and then went toward the shoemaker's shop. He knocked, and after some little delay was admitted by old Theed. The captain stepped into the shop and jerked his head in the direction of the inner room. "Is she sleeping?" he asked. The old man nodded. "All day long," he said, "she has sat like one in a dream, scarcely seeing me; a little time since she fell asleep, but even now her dreams are troubled and she cries out strange things."