"I see you hesitate, Uniacke," said Sir Graham. "Ah, you agree with me!" "No; I think you may have been careless. But you magnify a slight error into a grievous sin; and I do indeed believe that it must be your present bad state of health which acts as the magnifying glass. That is my honest opinion." "No, no," said the painter, almost with anger, "my illness is all from the mind. If I could find that boy, if I could give him back to his mother, I should recover my peace, I should recover my health--I should no longer be haunted, driven as I am now. But, Uniacke, do you know what it is that I fear most of all, what it is that dogs me, night and day; though I strive to put it from me, to tell myself that it is a chimera?" "What?" "The belief that little Jack is dead; that he has been drowned at sea, perhaps lately, perhaps long ago." "Why should you think that? You do not even know for certain that he ran away to sea." "I am sure of it. If he is dead! If he is dead!" The painter, as if in an access of grief, turned abruptly from the fire, walked over to the window, pulled one of the blowing curtains aside and approached his face to the glass. "In spite of the storm it is still so light that I can see those graves," he said in a low voice. "Don't look at them, Sir Graham. Let us talk of other things." "And--and--yes, Uniacke, that poor, mad Skipper is still out there, lingering among them. He is by the churchyard wall, where you were standing this evening in the twilight: one would say he was watching." The clergyman had also risen from his seat. He moved a step or two across the little room, then stood still, looking at Sir Graham, who was half concealed by the fluttering curtains. "He is just where I stood?" Uniacke asked. "Yes." "Then he is watching." "By a grave?" "Yes. Only one of his crew ever gained the land. He gained it--a corpse. He is buried by that wall. I was reading the inscription upon his tombstone, and wondering--" "Wondering? Yes?" "Where he is, how he is now, far away from the voice of the sea which took his life, the wind which roared his requiem." "Poor man! You were here when he was washed up on the beach?" "Yes. I buried him. The Skipper--sane then, though in terrible grief--was able to identify him, to follow the drowned body as chief mourner, to choose the inscription for the stone." "What was it?" asked Sir Graham, without curiosity, idly, almost absently. "'Lead, kindly light.' He would have that put. I think he had heard the boy sing it, or whistle the tune of it, at sea one day." "The boy? It was a boy then?" "Yes." The clergyman spoke with a certain hesitation, a sudden diffidence. He looked at the painter, and an abrupt awkwardness, almost a shamefacedness, crept into his manner, even showed itself in his attitude. The painter did not seem to be aware of it. He was still engrossed in his own sorrow, his own morbid reflections. He looked out again in the night.