WHEN Black Pawl saw the locket, his hands fell and hung limply at his sides. He stared at the little golden thing; and his eyes blurred, and he brushed his knuckles across them, and stared again.

Under his gaze, bent thus upon her throat, the girl crimsoned; she did not understand, but she saw that a change had come in the man. She was breathless, wondering and bewildered. She put up her hands to gather her waist together; and Black Pawl caught her wrists gently, and held them aside; and then he fumbled the locket in his thick fingers, and bent near her, so that his mop of iron-gray hair brushed her face. She looked down and saw that he was trying to open the locket with a blunted thumb-nail.

When the locket was open, he cried out, hoarsely. For it held, on the one side a daguerreotype of a little boy; and on the other, an old and faded photograph of a woman. A long time he gazed at it; then he closed it and lifting his eyes, looked into Ruth Lytton’s eyes as he did so. She saw the black tragedy that was eating him, and touched his arm pityingly. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right, truly.” She knew the man was broken with shame, even though she did not understand.

He was studying her with glazing eyes. His daughter! She was his daughter—his daughter, and mirror of his love of the years agone.

He tottered, as though under a succession of blows. He swayed where he stood; and abruptly he lifted his hands and cried out, in the agony of this new knowledge, and in a passionate abasement, to the God he had forgotten.

Silent, then, he seemed to listen for an answer. And when no answer came, the man’s head drooped, and he turned stumblingly, and opened the door of Ruth’s cabin, and went out. He dropped into a chair by the table in the cabin. His head fell forward on his crossed arms.

The girl was blankly bewildered by what had passed. There was no fear in Ruth Lytton; there had never been fear in her. There was infinite charity in her for Black Pawl’s sins. And—she knew the man was not himself, was half sick, was broken.

The matter of the locket meant nothing to her. She supposed that sight of it had evoked some ancient memory, but she had no guess as to what that memory might be. Standing alone in her cabin,—he had closed the door behind him,—she was trembling at the thought, not of her own peril, but of the terrible remorse and abasement in Black Pawl’s cry to God. She had never seen a man thus completely broken and helpless before the Unseen; and there was a majesty about the sight that gripped her.

Nevertheless, after a moment, she felt a quite human anxiety. She had seen the full depths of Black Pawl’s self-contempt; she was suddenly afraid that the man would harm himself. And when she thought of the chance of this, she forgot everything else in her haste to find him, and comfort him, and tell him all was well.

She opened the cabin door to come out; she saw Black Pawl at the table, his head dropped on his hands.

She was, at first, a little awed by this sight of a strong man crushed. Then the woman in her cried out with soft compassion; and she crossed quickly and stood beside him and touched his head.

“It’s all right,” she told him softly. “It’s all right, Cap’n Pawl.”

She could think of nothing else to say.

His shoulders shook with a convulsive tremor; and she knew that he was crying, crying like a child, with his head upon his arms. A woman’s tears confuse a man; but a man’s tears frighten and appal a woman. Ruth was shaken by the knowledge that Black Pawl was sobbing; she did not know what to do. She could only plead: “Please! Please don’t! It’s all right, truly.”

With a curious abruptness he was calm. He lifted his head and looked up at her. His face was streaked with tears; and yet it was strangely serene. It was haggard, and yet it was at peace. There was none of the old mockery in his eyes, and none of the evil. It was as though his tears had washed him clean. He looked up at her; and she smiled at him, hand on his hand, and pleaded:

“Don’t be unhappy!”

He was studying her countenance, line by line. And after a moment, he said in a quiet deep voice that was unlike him:

“Will you sit down? Across the table there? I want to talk with you.”

She said, “Of course,” and she crossed and sat down facing him. Again, for a little, he did not speak. Then he held out his hand.

“Will you let me see your locket?” he asked.

She unclasped the chain about her throat, and passed chain and locket across to him. He held them in his hands for a moment; then he opened the locket and looked long at the two pictures inside, and there were tears in his eyes again. She asked softly:

“What do they mean to you?”

He did not answer her question; he asked one of his own. “Ruth, where did you get this locket?”

“My mother gave it to me,” she said.

“Who was your mother?”

“Anna Lytton.”

He touched the daguerreotype in the locket. “Who is this?”

“My brother,” she told him. “He died before I was born.”

“And who is—this other?” He touched the photograph of his wife.

“My mother.”

He hesitated; then he asked: “Is it a—good picture of her?”

“Oh, yes. It was taken before I was born. But it was very like her.”

The man wetted his lips with his tongue. “Who was your father?” he asked.

“His name was Michael Lytton.”

“What was he like?”

The girl shook her head. “I never knew him.”

His head bowed over the locket. When he looked up again it was to ask: “Where have you lived? What was your life? Will you tell me?”

She nodded. “We—had a strange life,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl, we have lived among the islanders. My mother was a missionary; she knew how to make sick people well, and they loved her. We stayed with them always; but she always told me that when she died, I must go home.”

“Home?” he asked. “Where did she say your home was?”

“She said I was to go to people named Chase, who live in a town called Hingham, in Massachusetts.”

He nodded, as though he had expected this. His wife had been Anna Chase of Hingham, in the days when he wooed her.

“Do you remember any other life but this among the islanders?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. I know we came out on a ship, Mother and I, and landed at the islands, and stayed there. I think the captain of the ship was unkind to my mother. I think we slipped away from him. But—she never told me this. It is half memory, half guess.”

“You never went home while your mother lived?”

“No.”

“Did she ever tell you why?”

“She said her work was in the islands, that she could not leave them.”

“Was she happy?”

The girl considered; and her eyes were dim. “Not always,” she said.

The man leaned back, resting his hands against the table-rim. “You know,” he said humbly, “I wish you would talk to me. Tell me about your mother.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked uncertainly.

“Everything.”

There was an intensity in his voice that startled her. Nevertheless she began, obediently, to tell him of her mother. And once she had begun, there was no faltering. She was so full of things to tell, and it was so pleasant to be able to speak to one who cared to listen to these things.

They were both so absorbed that they did not hear when the boats returned to the ship. The missionary, coming a little uneasily down the cabin companion, found them still sitting at the table, facing each other; and the girl was talking swiftly and eagerly to the listening man.

When Black Pawl saw the missionary, he got up from where he sat. “Ah, Father,” he said softly, “I have been waiting for you.”

The missionary had an eye trained to see into the souls of men. He saw that a great change had come upon Black Pawl; and he saw that the change was good. His old eyes lighted.

“I am here,” he said.

Black Pawl looked toward the girl. “Ruth,” he told her gently, “your Dan is back. Go bid him welcome.”

The girl started toward the companion; then abruptly remembering, she turned back to her cabin—her waist was torn. She was out in a matter of minutes, in a fresh one. The missionary had asked Black Pawl: “What is it you wish of me?” But Black Pawl signed to him to wait.

When the girl came out and saw the two men, and saw their steady faces, and the somber grief in Black Pawl’s eyes, she went to the Captain’s side. “Cap’n Pawl,” she said to him under her breath, “you must not be unhappy. Please. You are a good man.... Kiss me.”

He bent with a swift rush of feeling and kissed her forehead; and she smiled up at him, then turned and fled to the deck where Dan waited for her.

Black Pawl faced the missionary. He turned to the table. “Father,” he said, “sit down.”

The missionary obeyed. He took the chair the girl had occupied. Black Pawl sat across the table; and after a minute, he began. “I’ve a thing to say that is hard saying,” he told the old man. “But—it has got to be told. Listen, Father.”

And so, straightforwardly, he told his story. He did not excuse himself; he did not palliate that which he had meant to do. He painted it in its ugliest colors, painted himself as black as the pit. He began with the moment when he and Ruth were left alone upon the schooner; he told how each step had come to pass. And he came at last to the moment when his rough hand had torn her waist, and he saw the locket at her throat. There was no heat in the man, no hysteria. He told it baldly; and at the last said:

“So I knew she was my daughter—my daughter.”

He was still, with that word. He seemed to wait upon the missionary; but the old man did not speak. Black Pawl watched him; and as he watched, into the Captain’s eyes stole something of that old, hard mockery of all the world. “So, Father!” he exclaimed harshly. “Is that not the unforgivable sin?”

The missionary looked up at him in mild surprise. “It seemed to me that Ruth had forgiven you,” he suggested.

Black Pawl said hoarsely: “Oh, aye! But—there’s none other like her in the world.”

“If she has forgiven, there is no one else to blame you,” said the missionary.

“What of God?” Black Pawl asked humbly; and the missionary looked at him and smiled a wise and kindly smile.

“You do not call him ‘my God,’” he suggested.

Black Pawl shook his head. “No—no. He’s mine too. There’s no escaping Him. But—what will He say to this matter, Father?”

The missionary rested his hands on the table, and his eyes met Black Pawl’s. “It seems to me, Cap’n Pawl, that you are a new man, reborn, this hour. Is it so?”

“Aye,” said Black Pawl. “It is so.”

“Then—this ugly matter. Perhaps it was God’s way of awakening you.”

“Harsh measures, Father.”

“Harsh measures were needed, my son,” said the missionary gently.

Black Pawl nodded. His eyes clouded thoughtfully; he studied the other. “Father,” he said at last, “you must have guessed this thing from what I told you.”

“I did guess,” said the other honestly.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I was in doubt,” said the missionary humbly. “I was in doubt. But—it seemed to me that matter was in His hands.”

Black Pawl nodded. “Oh, aye.” Then he was still again, with his thoughts. After a time, he asked like a child seeking knowledge: “Will there be punishment, Father?”

The missionary shook his head. “I do not know. Have you not suffered?”

“I would die to wipe the thing away,” Black Pawl cried passionately.

“To die is not hard,” said the missionary. “It is often merely release from unhappiness and pain.”

“There is nothing I would not do to wipe the thing away,” amended the Captain steadily. The other lifted his hand to dismiss the thought.

“Eh, Cap’n Pawl,” he said quietly, “if there is to be punishment, it will come. If there is to be a cup of atonement, it will be offered to your lips.”

The two men sat thoughtfully silent for a space, upon that word; and it may have been that their thoughts took the same channel, for Black Pawl was thinking of his son when the missionary asked at last: “Will you tell Red Pawl of this?”

Black Pawl hesitated. “I do not know.” And he added, after a moment: “Father, I fear Red Pawl. And—I never feared him before. I am afraid for Ruth’s sake. Not for my own, by the eternal!”

“Would telling him—protect her?” the missionary asked. Black Pawl laughed bitterly.

“I’ve taught him never a scruple in all the world,” he said. “And—for what this would mean to him—God knows!”

The old man said sternly: “Red Pawl is a charge upon your soul.”

“Aye,” said Black Pawl “And heavy there!”

They said no more of Red then. The missionary asked: “You told Ruth who you were?”

Black Pawl shook his head. “No, I told her nothing. What right have I to thrust such a father on the child?”

The man of the church smiled. “There’s no matter of thrusting,” he said. “You are her father; and—I know Ruth. She will want to know.” He got up and went purposefully toward the companion. Black Pawl came swiftly to his feet.

“No, Father!”

But the missionary was calling up to the deck, “Ruth!” She answered. “Will you come below?”

She came down the companion. The missionary took her by the hand. Black Pawl stood rigid by the table. She looked from one to the other.

It was the missionary who told her—very simply, and very briefly. Not all that was to be told, not the matter of her mother’s flight from this man; that was left for a quieter hour. But he told her enough so that she must see, and believe.

When he was silent, Ruth looked at her father, and she moved slowly toward him. She wanted to clasp him close; she wanted to cry; she wanted to hold the strong man’s tired head against her breast. But this girl had strength, and understanding. And she saw that Black Pawl was near the breaking-point, that his jangling nerves might give way at a wrong touch. So, when she came near him, she did not cry out and throw herself into his arms as she would have liked to do. His own arms were hanging at his sides; she took hold of them at the elbow and shook him a little, back and forth; and she laughed a choking little laugh, and she said:

“I told you I wanted you to be a father to me, Black Pawl!”

His arms went around her then, gently. His head came down; his face was buried in her hair. They did not stir; they did not speak.

The old missionary smiled, and he went on deck and left them together there.