This was kept up hour after hour, and when the sun, a golden ball, had slipped behind the rising billows, and a soft mist rose from the sea, the child turned round, her little face saddened, and walked away slowly at the old man’s side.
One day I spoke to an old sailor and asked about the child.
“That is Jeannette,” he said, taking his short clay pipe out of his mouth, “her father was killed eighteen months ago; the mast of his boat fell on him, and since the day his body was carried home, she has never been the same. She does not think that he is dead, and every afternoon her grandfather has to bring her down here to watch for him.”
He tapped his head expressively, and, as a merry laugh sounded, a smile of tenderness softened his rugged features.
I looked up and saw Jeannette coming as usual, carrying the telescope, and skipping gleefully before the old man.
“How sad, how sad!” I murmured with a sigh, but the old sailor shook his head; putting his pipe into his mouth hastily he puffed out a cloud of smoke to hide the tears that had gathered in his eyes, and answered softly—“God is good. She will never know, and so she will never cease to hope.”
IN THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO
(Rudyard Kipling: Collected Sketches.)
A stone’s throw out on either hand
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range,
—From the Dusk to the Dawn.