belief in Nature as a wise and
beneficent mother, stern but never unjust, controlled his will and
justified his actions. In those early days Harry had worshipped him
with that whole-hearted adoration bestowed at times by young
hero-worshippers on those that have travelled a little way along the
path and have learnt their lesson wisely. Tony Newsome's influence had
done more for Harry in those early years than he had realised, but he
knew now what he owed to him as he sat by his side and recalled those
other days. They had written once or twice, but Tony was no
correspondent and hated to have a pen between his fingers.

"Drive a horse, pull a boat, shoot a gun, mind a net--but God help me
if I write," he had said. Not that he objected to books; he had read a
good deal and cared for it--but "God's air in the day and a merry fire
at night leaves little room for pen and ink" was his justification.

He treated Harry now as his boy of twenty years ago, and laughed at him
and scolded him as of old. He did not question him very closely on the
incidents of those twenty years, and indeed, with them all, Harry
noticed that there was very little curiosity as to those other
countries. They welcomed him quietly, simply. They were glad that he
was there again, sitting with them, taking his place naturally and
easily--and again the twenty years seemed as nothing.

He sat with the dog at his feet. Newsome's hand was on his knee, and
every once and again he gave a smothered chuckle. "I knew you'd come
back, Mr. Harry," he said. "I just waited. Once the sea has got hold
of you it doesn't loosen its grip so quick. I knew you'd come back."

They told wild stories as they had been telling them for many years at
the same hour in the same place--strange things seen at sea, the lights
and mists of the moor, survivals of smuggling days and fights on the
beach under the moon; and it always was the sea. They might leave it
for a moment perhaps, but they came back to it--the terror of it, the
joy of it, the cruelty of it; the mistress that held them chained, that
called their children and would not be denied, the god that they served.

They spoke of her softly with lowered voices and a strange reverence.
They had learnt her moods and her dangers; they knew that she could
caress them, and then, of a sudden, strike them down--but they loved
her.

And she had claimed Harry again. Everything for which he had been
longing during tha