Mr Dawson asked some questions as to the cargo and value of the vessel taken in charge, and the mate answered them briefly, and then he said, “And now I must go. I came to-night, because of a promise I made—”
Jean had been sitting all this time in the shadow of her lather’s high-backed chair, a little out of sight. She rose now and stood gazing at the mate with dilated eyes and a face on which not a trace of colour lingered. He did not look at her, but at her father, who had risen also, ready to give his hand at parting.
“It is a letter,” said the sailor. “I must give it into your own hand, as I promised George.”
“George!” repeated Mr Dawson suddenly falling back into his chair again, with a face as white as Jean’s.
“Yes. He sailed with us. You surely must have heard of that.”
“I heard nothing of it.”
“Well, that is queer?”
He hesitated and remained silent, as he might not have done if he had seen the agony of the father’s face. Jean had stretched out her hand and touched him. She was trying to say something, but her lips uttered no sound.
“My son! my son! Oh, dinna tell me that he didna come home?”
It was an exceeding bitter cry.