Sometimes, when a person could not sleep, it meant that he was going to die.  Suppose one were to die now, and go to heaven, and they said to one, “How was Mr. Scraper when you came away?” and one had to say, “I ran away and left him this evening, and I don’t know how he is, or whether he is alive or dead—­for sometimes old people die just like that, dropping down in their chairs—­what would they say to one?  Perhaps the old man had dropped down now, this very night, from anger at his being away when he should have done the chores”.  He saw Mr. Scraper sitting in his arm-chair, cold and dead, with the rats running over the floor at his feet, because he, John, had not set the trap.  A scream rose to his lips, but he choked it back; and sitting up in desperation, drew aside the red curtains and looked out.

The cabin lay dim and quiet before him.  A lantern hung in the middle, turned low, and by its light he could see the shelves, with their shining rows of shells, and the glass counter with the sea-jewelry.  Directly opposite him, only the narrow space of the cabin between, lay the Skipper in his bunk, sleeping peacefully.  The wild fear died away in the child’s heart as he saw the calmness and repose of the stalwart figure.  One arm was thrown out; the strong, shapely hand lay with the palm open toward him, and there was infinite cheer and hospitality in the attitude.  In the dim light the Skipper’s features looked less firm and more kind; yet they were always kind.  It was not possible that this was a bad man, a stealer of children, a pilferer of old men’s cupboards.

If one could think that he had been playing all the time, making believe, just as a person did one’s self; but John had never known any grown people who could make believe; they had either forgotten, or else they were ashamed of the knowledge.  Once, it was true, he had persuaded Mr. Bill Hen Pike to be Plymouth Rock, when he wanted to land in the “Mayflower;” but just as the landing was about to be effected, Mrs. Pike had called wrathfully from the house, and the rock sprang up and shambled off without even a word of apology or excuse.  So grown people did not understand these things, probably; and yet,—­yet if it had been play, what glorious times one could have, with a real creese, and a real schooner, and everything delightful in the world!

How could he be bad and look like that?  The child bent forward and strained his eyes on the sleeping face.  So quiet, so strong, so gentle!  He tried putting other faces beside it, for he saw faces well, this boy, and remembered what he had seen.  He tried Mr. Scraper’s face, with the ugly blink to the red eyes, and the two wrinkles between the eyes, and the little nest of spiteful ones that came about his mouth when he was going to be angry; even when he slept—­the old gentleman—­his hands were clenched tight—­how different from that open palm, with its silent welcome!—­and his lips pursed up tight.  No! no! that was not