"Why are you asking that thing?"
"Because, Ian, you do not see any likeness in them to myself. I had thought—I had thought they were so like."
Macrae put his wavering, wrinkled hand to his withered mouth. He gave a chuckling laugh.
"Ah, I understand now. It is a joke you are playing on old Ian."
"Maybe ay, and maybe no, Ian; but I do want to know how they seem to you, those two yonder."
"Well, well, now, for sure, that friend of yours there, that spoke first, he is just a weary, tired old man, like I am myself, and so like me, now that I look at him, that he might be my wraith. And the other, he is a fine lad, a fisher-lad for sure, though I fear God's gripped his heart, for I see the old ancient sorrow in his eyes."
I stared: then suddenly I understood.
"Good-day, Ian," I added hurriedly, "and the blessing of Himself be upon you and yours, and upon the nets and the boats."
Then I moved slowly towards my companions, who awaited me. I understood now. The old fisherman had seen after his own kind. The Will, the Soul, which for the first time had journeyed outside our common home, had to take upon themselves bodily presences likewise. But these wavering images were to others only the reflection of whoso looked upon them. Old Ian had seen his own tired self and his lost youth. With a new fear the Body called to us, and we to him; and we were one, yet three; and so we went onward together.