capes and rocks, that she does not know. She could find her way blindfold by the feel of the wind and the force of the current. But it's in her blood. Father to son-father to son and daughter too-the Roseveans are born boatmen."

"She saved our lives," repeated the artist. "That is all we know of her. It is a good deal to know, perhaps, from our own point of view."

"She belongs to Samson. They've always lived on Samson. Once there were Roseveans, Tryeths, Jenkinses, and Woodcocks on Samson. Now they are nearly all gone-only one family of Rosevean left, and one of Tryeth."

"She said that nobody else lived there."

"Well, it is only her own family. They've started a flower-farm lately on Holy Hill, and I hear it's doing pretty well. It's a likely situation, too, facing the southwest and well sheltered. You should go and see the flower-farm. Armorel will be glad to show you the farm, and the island too. Samson has got a good many curious thingsmore curious, perhaps, than she knows, poor child!"

He paused for a moment, and then continued: "There's nobody on the island now but themselves. There's the old woman, first-you should see her, too.

A

She's a curiosity by herself-Ursula Rosevean-she was a Traverse, and came from Bryher to be married. She married Methusalem Rosevean, Armorel's great-great-grandfather— that was nigh upon eighty years ago; she's close upon a hundred now; and she's been a widow since when was it? I believe she'd only been a wife for twelve months or so. He was drowned on a smuggling run-his brother Emanuel, too. Widow used to look for him from the hill-top every night for a year and more afterward. wonderful old woman. Go and look at her. Perhaps she will talk to you. Sometimes, when Armorel plays the fiddle, she will brighten up and talk for an hour. She knows how to cure all diseases, and she can foretell the future. But she's too old now, and mostly she's asleep. Then there's Justinian Tryeth, and Dorcas, his wifethey're over seventy, both of them, if they're a day. Dorcas was a St. Agnes girl-that's the reason why her name was Hicks; if she'd come from Bryher she'd have been a Traverse; if from

"He's fifty, but he's always been the boy. He never married, because there was nobody left on Samson for him to marry, and he's always been too busy on the farm to come over here after a wife. And he looks more than fifty, because once he fell off the pier, head first, into the stern of a boat, and after he'd been unconscious for three days all his hair fell off except a few stragglers, and they'd turned white. Looks most as old as his father. Chessun's nearly fifty-two."

"Who is Chessun ?"

"She's the girl. She's always been the girl. She's never married, just like Peter, her brother, because there was no one left on Samson for her. And she never leaves the island except once or twice a year, when she goes to the afternoon service at Bryher. Well, gentlemen, that's all the people left on Samson.

"It is ten o'clock-I must go. Did you ever hear the story, gentlemen, of the Scillonian sailor?" He sat down again. "I believe it must have been one of the Roseveans. He was on board a West Indiaman, homeward bound, and the skipper got into a fog and lost his reckoning. Then he asked this man if he knew the Scilly Isles. 'Better nor any book,' says the sailor.

Then,' says the skipper, 'take the wheel.' In an hour crash went the ship upon the rocks. 'Damn your eyes!' says the skipper, 'you said you knew the Scilly Isles.' 'So I do,' says the man. This is one of 'em.' The ship went to pieces, and near all the hands were lost. But the people of the islands had a fine time with the flotsam and the jetsam for a good many days afterward."

In the night a vision came to Roland Lee. He saw Armorel once more sailing to his rescue. And in his vision he was seized with a mighty terror and a shaking of the limbs, and his heart sunk and his cheek blanched. And he cried aloud, as he sunk beneath the cold waters: "Oh, Armorel, you have come too late! save me now!"

Armorel, you can not

"I fair forgot," Hendry answered; "but what's a' yer steer?"

Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way that meant, "What a man is this I'm tied to!" "Steer!" she exclaimed. "Is't no time we was makkin' a steer? They'll be in for their tea ony meenute, an' the room no sae muckle as sweepit. Ay, an' me lookin' like a sweep; an' Tibbie Mealmaker, 'at's sae partikler genteel, seein' you sic a sicht as ye are !"

Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly to unbutton her wrapper with the other.

"She didna see me," said Hendry, sitting down forlornly on the table.

Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, an' Tibbie gae her a cup o' tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie telt Chirsty 'at she wears hose ilka day." "Wears hose?"

"Ay. It's some michty grand kind o' stockin'. I never heard o't in this toon. Na, there's naebody in Thrums 'at wears hose."

"And who did Tibbie get?" I asked; for in Thrums they say, "Wha did she get?" and

"Wha did he tak?"

"His name's Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu' o' maggots, an' nae great match, for he's juist the Tilliedrum bill-sticker."

At this moment Jess shouted from her chair (she was burnishing the society tea pot as she

"For mercy's sake, mother," said Leeby, "gie yer face a dicht, an' put on a clean mutch."

"I'll open the door if they come afore you're ready," said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him against the dresser.

"Ye daur to speak aboot openin' the door, an' you sic a mess!" cried Jess, with pins in her mouth.

be

"Havers!" retorted Hendry. "A man canna aye washin' at 'imsel'."

Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way as myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, whence we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other shrilly. I was aware that the room was speckless; but for all that Leeby was turning it upside down.

"She's aye taen like that," Hendry said to me, referring to his wife, "when she's expectin' company. Ay, it's a peety she canna tak things cannier."

"Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of importance?" I asked.

"Ou, she's naething by the ord'nar'; but ye see she was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no lang syne, an' they're said to hae a michty grand establishment. Ay, they've a wardrobe spleet new ; an' what think ye Tibbie wears ilka day?" I shook my head.

"It was Chirsty Miller 'at put it through the toon," Hendry continued. "Christy was in

nae condition are ye to mention the bill-stickin' afore Tibbie!"

"Tibbie," Hendry explained to me," is a terrible vain tid, an' doesna think the bill-stickin' genteel. Ay, they say 'at if she meets Davit in the street wi' his paste-pot an' the brush in his hands, she pretends no to ken 'im."

Every time Jess paused to think, she cried up orders, such as:

"Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always address her as Mistress Curly."

"Shak' hands wi' baith o' them, an' say ye hope they're in the enjoyment o' guid health." "Dinna put yer feet on the table."

"Mind, you're no' to mention 'at ye kent they were in the toon."

"When onybody passes ye yer tea say, 'Thank ye.'"

"Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin' butter, nor let on 'at the scones is no our ain bakin'." "If Tibbie says onything aboot the china, yer no' to say 'at we dinna use it ilka day.”

"Dinna lean in the big chair, for it's broken, an' Leeby's gi'en it a lick o' glue this meenute." "When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table that'll be a sign to ye to say grace."

Hendry looked at me apologetically while these instructions came up.

"I winna dive my head wi' sic nonsense," he said; "it's no' for a man body to be sae crammed fu' o' manners."

"Come awa doon," Jess shouted to him, "an' put on a clean dickey."

"I'll better do't to please her," said Hendry, "though for my ain part I dinna like the feel o' a dickey on week-days. Na, they mak's think it's the Sabbath."

Ten minutes afterward I went downstairs to see how the preparations were progressing. Fresh muslin curtains had been put up in the room. The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it; and a fine cambric hankerchief, of which Jess was very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by accident. An antimacassar lying carelessly on the seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horsehair, and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece were so placed that they looked whole. Leeby's black merino was hanging near the window in a good light, and Jess's Sabbath bonnet, which was never worn, occupied a nail beside it. The teathings stood on a tray in the kitchen bed, whence they could be quickly brought into the room, just as if they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, as yet in dishabille, was shaving her father

Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and then came a tap at the door-a very genteel tap. Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved Hendry into the room.

The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her father into a chair and thrust Barrow's "Sermons" open into his hand. Then she stole about the house, and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, speaking to Jess by nods the while. There was a third knock, whereupon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy voice: "Was that not a chap [knock] at the door?" Hendry was about to reply, but she shook her fist at him. Next moment Leeby opened the door. I was upstairs, but I heard Jess say:

"Dear me, if it's not Mrs. Curly-and Mr. Curly. And hoo are ye? Come in, by. Weel, this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise!"