[CHAPTER XII]
HAPPY DAYS
It was a lovely evening in August. The sun was setting in a blaze of splendour over the sparkling sea. The smooth shaven lawns and majestic sweep of park land around the fine old Tudor house were looking their loveliest upon an evening like this, and down by the sea, just where the creek ran up through a belt of woodland, and into the very garden itself, a man and a boy were waiting beside a neat little boat, fitted with cushions and other requisites of comfort, as if in expectation that somebody from the great house behind the trees would shortly be coming down for an evening row or sail.
The man and the boy were both dressed in suits of sailor blue. Their caps were of the same pattern, and had in gold letters round them the words, "Prince Rupert." The same words were painted in gilt letters upon the pretty boat; and the little boy—who was none other than Pat, only grown wonderfully brown and healthy and strong-looking—sometimes glanced at the name with a smile, and then up at Jim's smart head-gear.
"This is better than Lone Rock, isn't it, Jim?" he said, breaking the silence which had lasted some considerable time. "We didn't think last summer ever to be in a place like this."
"No, that we didn't," answered Jim, with the smile, which was now so frequently seen, and which lightened his rugged face wonderfully. "It's a better place than ever I dreamed of once; though I know now there's a better one still waiting for us by-and-by."
Jim's face lighted as he spoke with a look that Pat was used to seeing there now, and which always filled him with a certain wonder and awe. Jim had been up and about again for some little time now. He had the sole charge of the three boats which were kept in the boathouse in the creek, and used by the people in the big house whenever they wanted a sail or a row. No more scrupulously clean and attentive boat-keeper had ever been known, and all who came to the house noticed Jim, and had a kind word for him. But it was already quite plain that the man would never be fit for hard work again. He had received an injury on the night of the storm which baffled the skill of all the clever doctors who had been called in to see him. They could "patch him up" for a little while; they could give him sufficient ease and strength to enable him to get about his light daily tasks with comfort and pleasure. He could sail a boat in the bay in fine weather, or gently scull the light little Prince Rupert about with its young master as passenger. But that was about all he was fit for, and those who had heard the doctors' verdict knew that any winter he was liable to be carried suddenly off through the injury to the lung, which had so nearly caused his death whilst he lay in the lighthouse under the care of Eileen. Jim knew this himself as well as any one, but the thought gave him no trouble or anxiety. He was wonderfully happy and contented in his life; yet he was as ready as ever to go forth over the unknown sea if the Lord should hold out His hand and bid him come.
"Do you miss her very much?" asked Pat, after a pause, turning his eyes towards the sea in the direction of the Lone Rock, which in very clear weather could be distinguished from the garden wall. "You were fond of her, and knew her better than the rest of us. Do you think she misses you now that you're gone?"