“Ef I was yo’ I wouldn’ be finkin’ ’bout dat at dis hour ob partin’,” Jerusalem remarked. Before Wilet could defend herself from the implied rebuke the bell rang, and ’Rusalem hastened to answer it. He found Hanson standing in the hall. “Go and hoist the signal, so that my sailing master may know where to send out a boat.” “Young marse, de signal pol’ don been carried ’way long ob de stohm dat night w’en de boats an’ de boat’-ouse went; but ef yo’ can fin’ de f’ag I can put it up lon’ ob a clo’es prop, or sumhows.” Without a word Hanson turned and fled upstairs, and soon came down again, with the red flag in his hand. ’Rusalem went around to the rear of the house, and brought from the shed one of Wilet’s long clothesline props. Hanson joined him, and together they went down to the broken pier, dug a hole in the sand, planted the pole, and hoisted the signal. The yacht was now within a quarter of a mile of the island. After fixing the signal Hanson stood with his small telescope at his eye, watching her. After a while he turned his glass toward Snowden, and started as he saw crossing from that point a large rowboat. In the eight days that had passed since the storm had carried off the island boats, and made him a prisoner there, no boat had come from the mainland, nor was one expected or hoped for, as there was really nothing to bring the dwellers on the shore to the Isle of Storms at this season of the year. What, therefore, should bring the strange boat on the very morning of the arrival of the _Roma_? While he was speculating on this question a horn blew from the direction of the house. This had been Wilet’s method of summoning people who were out of hearing of the bell, to come to the meal that was then ready. “It’s breakfas’, young marse. Breakfas’ is yeady,” suggested ’Rusalem. “And I am ready for breakfast,” gayly replied the young man, as he shut up his glass and put it in his pocket. “Yo’s gwine fo’ to leabe us, so I year ’Rusalem say, young marse,” remarked Wilet, as she stood at the head of the table, ready to pour out his coffee. “Yes; are you not delighted to hear it?” he inquired, with a twinkle in his eye. “Now dat dere is a wery s’archin’ question, young marse. But I do say, fo’ de trufe, I’m not zactly ’lighted as yo’re gwine ’way; but same time I doane deny as yo’ sartinly was a g’eat ’sponsibility to me an’ ’Rusalem, ’specially sence dat dere night w’en yo’ was—was—was—tuk so ill, wid no way ob gettin’ ob a doctor to yo’. No, sah, no way. But as yo’ gwine, young marse, I hopes, I des, as yo’ do well, an’ make up long ob de young mist’ess, an’ let wine ’lone—w’ich she woone put up wid, as yo’ see yo’se’f. An’ I hope yo’ bofe will lib togedder in lub, an’ sometimes come yere to see de ole p’ace in de p’easant summer time.” “Thank you, Wilet. I, too, hope we shall,” he answered as he took the cup of coffee from her hand.