nly to keep the talk going, but I remembered the remark long
after.

"I do," said he. "'Tis a fair sample of an English coast town. And I
have often thought, in the event of war with France, how easy 'twould
be for Louis's cruisers to harry the place, and an hundred like it, and
raise such a terror as to keep the British navy at home."

I did not know at the time that this was the inspiration of an admiral
and of a genius. The subject waned. And as familiar scenes jogged his
memory, he launched into Scotch and reminiscence. Every barn he knew,
and cairn and croft and steeple recalled stories of his boyhood.

We had long been in sight of Criffel, towering ahead of us, whose summit
had beckoned for cycles to Helvellyn and Saddleback looming up to the
southward, marking the wonderland of the English lakes. And at length,
after some five hours of stiff walking, we saw the brown Nith below
us going down to meet the Solway, and so came to the entrance of Mr.
Craik's place. The old porter recognized Paul by a mere shake of the
head and the words, "Yere back, are ye?" and a lowering of his bushy
white eyebrows. We took a by-way to avoid the manor-house, which stood
on the rising ground twixt us and the mountain, I walking close to John
Paul's shoulder and feeling for him at every step. Presently, at a turn
of the path, we were brought face to face with an elderly gentleman in
black, and John Paul stopped.

"Mr. Craik!" he said, removing his hat.

But the gentleman only whistled to his dogs and went on.

"My God, even he!" exclaimed the captain, bitterly; "even he, who
thought so highly of my father!"

A hundred yards more and we came to the little cottage nigh hid among
the trees. John Paul paused a moment, his hand upon the latch of the
gate, his eyes drinking in the familiar picture. The light of day was
dying behind Criffel, and the tiny panes of the cottage windows pulsed
with the rosy flame on the hearth within, now flaring, and again
deepening. He sighed. He walked with unsteady step to the door and
pushed it open. I followed, scarce knowing what I did, halted at the
threshold and drew back, for I had been upon holy ground.

John Paul was kneeling upon the flags by the ingleside, his face buried
on the open Bible in his mother's lap. Her snowy-white head was bent
upon his, her tears running fast, and her lips moving in silent prayer
to Him who giveth and taketh away. Verily, here in this humble place
dwelt a love