"Is that you, Adams? By all means come in."

Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that
streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips,
and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of the
_Bounty_.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Adams, touching his hat. "Hope I don't intrude.
I heard you was--was--"

"Praying," said Christian. "Yes, Adams, I have been praying."

"Well, sir," said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of
encouragement, "you've got no reason to be ashamed of that."

"Quite true, Adams, and I'm _not_ ashamed of it. I've not only got no
reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful
that I'm inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite.
You've got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of.
Come, let's have it."

There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian's look and
tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and
wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was
too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings.
Clearing his voice, he said, "Well, Mr Christian, here's what I've got
to say. I've bin thinkin' for a long time past that it's of no manner
of use your comin' up here day after day an' mopin' away about what
can't be mended, an' goin' into the blues. You'll excuse me, sir, for
bein' so free, but you shouldn't do it, sir. You can't alter what's bin
done by cryin' over spilt milk, an' it comes heavy on the rest of us,
like. Indeed it do. So I've made so bold as to come an' say you'd
better drop it and come along with me for a day's shootin' of the cats
an' pigs, and then we'll go home an' have a royal supper an' a song or
two, or maybe a game at blind-man's-buff with the child'n. That's
what'll do you good, sir, an' make you forget what's past, take my word
for it, Mister Christian."

While Adams was speaking, Christian's expression varied, passing from
the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of
profound gravity.

"You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us," he said,
grasping the sailor's extended hand; "thank you all the same for your
advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short
of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of
self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping h