'Naturally. To a Scillonian no explanation is needed. He knows, without being told, the meaning of peninsula, island, bay, shore, archipelago, current, tide, cape, headland, ocean, lake, road, harbour, reef, lighthouse, beacon, buoy, sounding--everything. He must know also what is meant by a gale of wind, a stiff breeze, a dead calm. He recognises, by the look of it, a lively sea, a chopping sea, a heavy sea, a roaring sea, a sulky sea. He knows everything except a river. That, I suppose, requires very careful explanation. It was a Scilly youth--I mean a Scillonian--who sat down on the river bank to wait for the water to go by. The history seems to prove the commercial intercourse which in remote antiquity took place between Phoenicia and the Cassiterides or Scilly Islands.' Armorel looked puzzled. 'I did not know that story of a Scillonian and a river,' she said, coldly. 'Never mind his stories,' said Roland. 'This place is a story in itself: you are a story: we are all in fairyland.' 'No'--she shook her head. 'Bryher is the only island in all Scilly which has any fairies. They call them pixies there. I do not think that fairies would ever like to come and live on Samson: because of the graves, you know.' She led them down the hill along a path worn by her own feet alone, and brought them out to the level space occupied by the farm-buildings. 'This is where we live,' she said. 'If you could stay here, Roland Lee, we could give you a room. We have many empty rooms'--she sighed--'since my father and mother and my brothers were all drowned. Will you come in?' She took them into the 'best parlour,' a room which struck a sudden chill to anyone who entered therein. It was the room reserved for days of ceremony--for a wedding, a christening, or a funeral. Between these events the room was never used. The furniture presented the aspect common to 'best parlours,' being formal and awkward. In one corner stood a bookcase with glass doors, filled with books. Armorel showed them into this apartment, drew up the blind, opened the window--there was certainly a stuffiness in the air--and looked about the room with evident pride. Few best parlours, she thought, in the adjacent islands of St. Mary's, Bryher, Tresco, or even Great Britain itself, could beat this. She left them for a few minutes, and came back bearing a tray on which were a plate of apples, another of biscuits, and a decanter full of a very black liquid. Hospitality has its rules even on Samson, whither come so few visitors. 'Will you taste our Scilly apples?' she said. 'These are from our own orchard, behind the house. You will find them very sweet.' Roland took one--as a general rule, this young man would rather take a dose of medicine than an apple--and munched it with avidity. 'A delicious fruit!' he cried. But his friend refused the proffered gift. 'Then you will take a biscuit, Dick Stephenson? Nothing? At least, a glass of wine?' 'Never in the morning, thank you.'