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No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible. Nothing that I desire to remember," replied Sheppard, sternly. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not.
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