She came from the house, as again he became cognizant of the Midi garden instead of the Antrim glen, of the Mediterranean instead of the waters of Moyle. She came down the dusky pathway. At a little distance she saw his face. She stopped short, her face white.... "Shane! Shane! what is wrong? Are you hurt? Ill?" "My Uncle Robin is dead, Claire-Anne." She looked at him for a little instant, not quite understanding. She came to him swiftly as a swallow. She sat close beside him. Her arm went through his. Her hands clasped his hands. "Why didn't you tell me, heart?" she whispered. "I just knew this instant. I felt, saw.... We were that close ... my Uncle Robin! _Beannacht De ar a anam!_ God's blessing on his soul!" She never spoke. She never stirred. She hardly breathed. She was just there, her hands, firm and strong, on his, did he want her. "Was it ... a hard death, Shane?" "No; I seemed to see him, asleep, among his books." "His books were his friends ... you told me.... "Yes, dear. His life was with them." "And he wasn't a young man, your Uncle Robin?" "Eight and sixty years of age." "Is it so ill, heart, to go quickly, quietly, with your friends about you, on an autumn afternoon?" "No, dear, not ill. Very rightly ... I think. But there is something.... Something is gone from the world, like a fine tree from a garden.... And he was awful' dear to me, my Uncle Robin.... It will be a hard thing to go home, and he not there to come and ask: 'Are you all right, laddie? You're no sick?' Claire-Anne, I'll be thinking long...." She sat with him in silence in the garden, and after a little while got up and went without a word.... And he sat in the garden thinking to himself, had he been lax to Uncle Robin in any way? He might have written oftener. It wasn't fair to have kept the old man worried and he an apprentice at sea. Yes, he could have written, could have written oftener. And thought more. And there were books he might have brought the old man--books from 'Frisco and New York and Naples. The book-stores were so far from the quays, and he had put it off. And he could have so easily.... When one is young, one is so thoughtless.... A message from somewhere ran into his consciousness like a ripple of code-flags: 'It doesn't matter, dear laddie. Don't be taking on. Don't be blaming yourself. You were the dear lad ... and I'm happy....' Ah, yes, but a great tree was gone from the garden. An actuality had been converted into thought and emotion, and thought and emotion may be all that endure, and an actuality be unreal ... but an actuality is so warm ... so reassuring.... He rose and went toward the house, and as he walked he met her.... "Claire-Anne, do you mind if I go back to the ship?... Somehow, I'm a little lost...." "There is a carriage waiting for you outside."