He stopped suddenly in front of Uniacke.
"Do you believe," he said, "that when we think very steadily and intensely of a thing we may, perhaps, project—give life, as it were, for the moment to our thought?"
"Why do you ask me?" said Uniacke. "It has never happened to me to do such a thing."
"Why do I ask? Well, I'll—"
He hesitated, keeping his eyes fixed on Uniacke's face.
"Yes, I'll tell you what took place. I went out thinking of my picture, of its composition, of the light effect, of the faces of the drowned men, especially of the face of little Jack. I seemed to see him coming into that belfry tower—yes, to greet the Skipper, all dripping from the sea. But—but—no, Uniacke, I'll swear that, in my mind, I saw his face as it used to be. That was natural, wasn't it? I imagined it white, with wide, staring eyes, the skin wet and roughened with the salt water. But that was all. So it couldn't have been my thought projected, because I had never imagined.—"
He was evidently engrossed by his own reflections. His eyes had an inward expression. His voice died in a murmur, almost like the murmur of one who babbles in sleep.
"Never had imagined what?" said Uniacke, sharply.
"Oh, forgive me. I cannot understand it. As I paced in the churchyard, thinking of my picture, and watching the moon and the shadows cast by the church and by the stones of the tombs, I came to that grave by the wall."
"The grave of the boy I told you about?" said Uniacke with an elaborate indifference.