It was a strange scene that, down below in the Grebe’s cabin on this night of storm and tempest. The weird wee man, with that uncanny eye of his, that seemed to transfix the skylight as he sat on the locker; the eager face of the handsome boy Barclay and the three wee girls listening so intently, as if afraid to lose a single note.
Somehow or other, little Teenie’s tears were falling.
One farewell sigh breathed over the strings, and the music stopped. Antonio laid down the instrument and beckoned Teenie towards him.
“Why does dearie cry?”
She buried her bonnie face on his shoulder now and sobbed—
“Because—because,” she replied, “poor uncle was dlowned and all in the boat—last—year. Oh, I—loved poor unkie. And—and——”
“And my singing and the roar of the waves brought back the recollection—eh, dearie?”
“Yes—yes,” she wept, “on a fearful night they were all dlowned.”
Antonio petted and soothed her, till she fell fast asleep. Then he placed her and Maud in his own bunk, put Phœbe to bed on the little sofa, while, rolled in rugs, Barclay turned in on the locker.
Antonio lowered the lamp that swung from the roof. Then he once more took up his guitar; that which he played now was a strange Indian lullaby, plaintive, sweet, and low.