Shaking hands with Uncle John, the restless skipper once more put on the imperishable hat with inconceivable violence and left the hut, followed by his friend.
Returning to Mr Stuart, we find him perusing the ambiguous letter. His first glance at the contents called forth a look of indignation, which was succeeded by one of surprise, and that was followed by a smile of contempt, mingled with amusement.
“Kenneth,” he said, tossing the letter to his son, who entered at the moment, “can you make anything of that?”
“Not much,” replied Kenneth, who at once guessed that it came from Gaff. “The persons who left the child here would appear to be mad, and anxious to get rid of their own offspring. But I came to tell you of sad forebodings that fill my breast, father.”
“Don’t give way to forebodings, Kenneth,” said the father gravely; “it is unmanly, unreasonable.”
“Well, suspicions, if you think the word more appropriate. I fear much, very much, that my dear sister and poor Tom Graham were lost in the last storm—”
“Why do you omit the child?” asked Mr Stuart quietly, almost coldly.
“I was thinking only of those whom I had known and loved when I spoke,” replied Kenneth with some emotion.
“There is no certainty that they are lost,” observed Mr Stuart.
Kenneth thought there was a slight tremor in his father’s voice, but, on glancing at his stern features, he felt that he must have been mistaken.