On the table beside him lay an inch-thick pile of note paper all closely
written upon in the clear, small pen-script of his father.

My son: [MacRae had written] I have a feeling lately that I may
never see you again. Not that I fear you will be killed. I no
longer have that fear. I seem to have an unaccountable assurance
that having come through so much you will go on safely to the
end. But I'm not so sure about myself. I'm aging too fast. I've
been told my heart is bad. And I've lost heart lately. Things
have gone against me. There is nothing new in that. For thirty
years I've been losing out to a greater or less extent in most
of the things I undertook--that is, the important things.

Perhaps I didn't bring the energy and feverish ambition I might
have to my undertakings. Until you began to grow up I accepted
things more or less passively as I found them.

Until you have a son of your own, until you observe closely
other men and their sons, my boy, you will scarcely realize how
close we two have been to each other. We've been what they call
good chums. I've taken a secret pride in seeing you grow and
develop into a man. And while I tried to give you an
education--broken into, alas, by this unending war--such as
would enable you to hold your own in a world which deals harshly
with the ignorant, the incompetent, the untrained, it was also
my hope to pass on to you something of material value.

This land which runs across Squitty Island from the Cove to
Cradle Bay and extending a mile back--in all a trifle over six
hundred acres--was to be your inheritance. You were born here. I