rried me forth with him to a bank
behind the house. It was a very hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple
anywhere upon the sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep and
gulls; and perhaps in consequence of this repose in nature, my kinsman
showed himself more rational and tranquil than before. He spoke evenly
and almost cheerfully of my career, with every now and then a reference
to the lost ship or the treasures it had brought to Aros. For my part, I
listened to him in a sort of trance, gazing with all my heart on that
remembered scene, and drinking gladly the sea-air and the smoke of
peats that had been lit by Mary.

Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who had all the while been
covertly gazing on the surface of the little bay, rose to his feet and
bade me follow his example. Now I should say that the great run of tide
at the south-west end of Aros exercises a perturbing influence round all
the coast. In Sandag Bay, to the south, a strong current runs at certain
points of the flood and ebb respectively; but in this northern bay--Aros
Bay, as it is called--where the house stands and on which my uncle was
now gazing, the only sign of disturbance is towards the end of the ebb,
and even then it is too slight to be remarkable. When there is any
swell, nothing can be seen at all; but when it is calm, as it often is,
there appear certain strange, undecipherable marks--sea-runes, as we may
name them--on the glassy surface of the bay. The like is common in a
thousand places on the coast; and many a boy must have amused himself as
I did, seeking to read in them some reference to himself or those he
loved. It was to these marks that my uncle now directed my attention,
struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance.

"Do you see yon scart upo' the water?" he inquired; "yon ane wast the
grey stane? Ay? Weel, it'll no' be like a letter, wull it?"

"Certainly it is," I replied. "I have often remarked it. It is like a
C."

He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then
added below his breath: "Ay, for the _Christ-Anna_."

"I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself," said I; "for my name is
Charles."

"And so ye saw't afore?" he ran on, not heeding my remark. "Weel, weel,
but that's unco strange. Maybe, it's been there waitin', as a man wad
say, through a' the weary ages. Man, but that's awfu'." And then,
breaking off: "Ye'll no' see anither, will ye?" he asked.

"Yes," said I. "I s