130
the dark grey eyes. She was not beautiful, but she carried herself well, and one would always look at her twice. It would be worth something to see the meeting between father and daughter.
But fate, the greatest artist of us all, takes little count of the careful drawing and the bright colouring of our fancy's pictures, but with rude hand deranges all, and with one swift sweep paints out the bright and paints in the dark. And this trick he served me when, one June night, after long and anxious waiting for some word from the west, my door suddenly opened and Graeme walked in upon me like a spectre, grey and voiceless. My shout of welcome was choked back by the look in his face, and I could only gaze at him and wait for his word. He gripped my hand, tried to speak, but failed to make words come.
'Sit down, old man,' I said, pushing, him into my chair, 'and take your time.'
He obeyed, looking up at me with burning, sleepless eyes. My heart was sore for his misery, and I said: 'Don't mind, old chap; it can't be so awfully bad. You're here safe and sound at any rate,' and so I went on to give him time. But he shuddered and looked round and groaned.
'Now look here, Graeme, let's have it. When did you land here? Where is Nelson? Why didn't you bring him up?'
'He is at the station in his coffin,' he answered slowly.
'In his coffin?' I echoed, my beautiful pictures all vanishing. 'How was it?'
'Through my cursed folly,' he groaned bitterly.
'What happened?' I asked. But ignoring my question, he said: 'I must see his children. I have not slept for four nights. I hardly know what I am doing; but I can't rest till I see his children. I promised him. Get them for me.'
'To-morrow will do. Go to sleep now, and we shall arrange everything to-morrow,' I urged.
'No!' he said fiercely; 'to-night--now!'
In half an hour they were listening, pale and grief-stricken, to the story of their father's death.
Poor Graeme was relentless in his self-condemnati