“And so you were in that trade!” I exclaimed.

He seemed to hesitate.

“Yes,” he replied, “and sorry I am to say it.  But a man must live.  It was no place for a gentleman, and I left of my own accord.  Before that, I was on a slaver out of Whitehaven.”

“You must know Whitehaven, then.”

I said it only 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 that defied the hard usage of a hard world!

After a space he came to the door and called, and took me by the hand, and I went in with him.  Though his eyes were wet, he bore himself like a cavalier.