“That will give me time to go to the isle. I will walk down to the beach and see if I can get a boat; and I should like some supper at about eleven o’clock, before I leave for West Virginia,” said Harcourt. “Oh, you go by that train, do you?” “Yes.” “All right. You shall have supper before you go.” “Thank you,” said Harcourt, with a short bow, as he left the office. He walked down the village street until it merged into the country road that led to the water’s edge. There, after some little inquiry, he found a boatman and then a boat. The sun had set, but the sky was very clear, and brilliant with starlight. The wind was low, and the waters were still, and all circumstances favored a safe and pleasant row to the isle, that lay, as usual, like a preadamite sea serpent, coiled on the dark, glimmering surface of the sea, some miles distant from the shore. Harcourt took one oar and the boatman took the other. A rapid row of half an hour brought them to the isle. “It will be cold for you to remain here. Will you come up to the house?” inquired Harcourt as he stepped ashore. “Oh, Lord, no! I’ll just fasten the boat, and walk up and down here to keep myself warm until you come back, if you won’t be long,” replied the boatman. “I shall be an hour, at least. But if you feel cold, come up to the house at any time.” “All right; I will.” Harcourt stepped rapidly up the rugged face of the crest and toward the dark mass of buildings on the top. The house seemed all shut up and dark. He walked around to the rear of the mansion, and saw one dim light shining through a low window—kitchen window, probably; but before he could approach nearer a chorus of barks from three dogs defied him, and these were instantly followed by the appearance of an old negro man at the door beside the window, and a startled voice inquiring: “Who dar? Name o’ de Lord, who is yer, an’ wot do yo’ want?” “’Rusalem, is that you?” inquired Harcourt, by way of opening conversation, though he was sure of the old man’s identity. “Cose it’s me! But who de name o’ de Lord is yo’? Shet up, dogs! Hol’ yo’ jaws dar, I tell yo’! A body can’t hear deirselves speak fo’ yo’! Who is yo’, an’ wot do yo’ want yere?” “Don’t you remember Will Harcourt, who was clerk here last summer?” “W’y, sho! ’Tain’t yo’! W’y, Lor’s! ’Member yo’? Well, I reckon I doane ’member nobody else! Down, dogs! Stop it, can’t yo’? Come in, sah. Well, Lor’s! Who’d a think to see yo’ here? Come on. My ole ’oman’ll be moughty proud to see yo’. ’Deed will Wilet!” Harcourt followed the old negro into the spacious kitchen, where a huge fire was burning in the open fireplace, at the lefthand corner of which sat Wilet, smoking her pipe.