old now, a little, he dreamed
new dreams of fatherly affection, indulged in a studio which had grown
lonely of late; and he promised himself, beyond this, the fine delight
of cherishing a young genius, himself the prophet of that power, with
whose great fame his own name might bear company into the future. And
Terry Lute, met in the flesh, turned out to be a man--even such a man,
in his sure, wistful strength, as Cobden could respect.

There came presently the close of a day on the cliffs of
Out-of-the-Way, a blue wind blowing over the sunlit moss, when
Cobden, in fear of the issue, which must be challenged at last, turned
from his work to the slope behind, where Terry Lute sat watching.

"Come!" said Cobden, smiling, "have a try."

Terry Lute shrank amused from the extended color-box and brushes.

"Ah, no, sir," said he, blushing. "I used t', though, when I were a
child."

Cobden blinked.

"Eh?" he ejaculated.

"I isn't done nothin' at it since."

"'I put away childish things,'" flashed inevitably into Cobden's mind.
He was somewhat alarmed. "Why not since then?" he asked.

"'Tis not a man's work, sir."

"Again, why not?"

"'Tis a sort o'--silly thing--t' do."

"Good God!" Cobden thought, appalled. "The lad has strangled his
gift!"

Terry Lute laughed then.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly, with a wistful smile, seeking
forgiveness; "but I been watchin' you workin' away there like mad with
all them little brushes. An' you looked so sort o' funny, sir, that I
jus' couldn't help--laughin'." Again he threw back his head, and once
more, beyond his will, and innocent of offense and blame, he laughed a
great, free laugh.

It almost killed James Cobden.

* * * * *

IV

THE DOCTOR OF AFTERNOON ARM

* * * * *

IV

THE DOCTOR OF AFTERNOON ARM

It was March weather. There was sunshine and thaw. Anxious Bight was
caught over with rotten ice from Ragged Run Harbor to the heads of
Afternoon Arm. A rumor of seals on the Arctic drift ice off shore had
come in from the Spotted Horses. It inspired instant haste in all the
cottages of Ragged Run--an eager, stumbling haste. In Bad-Weather Tom
West's kitchen, somewhat after ten o'clock in the morning, in the
midst of this hilarious scramble to be off to the floe, there was a
flash and spit of fire, and the clap of an explosion, and the clatter
of a sealing-gun on the b