“A fine piece of goldstone, Joseph. I never saw a prettier piece; yes, Isla will surely be pleased with that. But don’t you think it would be just as well to give it directly to her? I think she might be better pleased if you gave it to her yourself. Wait here a moment, and I will bring both the children; or, there is Miss Stewart; I will ask her to bring them.” A few words told Miss Stewart the nature of the new arrival; after a curious glance at the fish-like visitor, she sped away. The kind trustee waited, saying a word now and then to Joe, trying to make him feel at ease, pointing out this and that picture on the walls; but the islander paid little heed. His eyes were fixed on the door; he sat on the edge of his chair, turning the brooch absently in his fingers; he was listening so intently that the trustee fancied he could almost see his ears prick from under the wisps of sandy hair. Presently there came a sound of feet on the stair, and Joe started up with an inarticulate sound, between a whistle and a cry. The trustee heard three distinct footfalls, but Joe heard only one. “She’s comin’!” he cried. “Isly’s comin’!” Was this Isla who came in? The trustee stared in amazement. Deadly white, with brows drawn as if in pain, with lips set close, hands pressed together, eyes full of fear,—was this Isla? The principal shook her head, and signed her amazement. “I could hardly make her come,” she whispered. “She fell into a sort of shuddering fit,—I fear there is something wrong about it all. Hush!” Both were silent, feeling the matter taken out of their hands. Joseph Brazybone was at Isla’s feet, half kneeling, half crouching; he was patting her dress, her hands, touching the ends of her long hair with timid fingers. The trustee felt that he was needing a tail to wag, and was sorry for him. Little Jacob threw himself on the islander, with every sign of pleasure, but Joe hardly heeded him, only looked up in Isla’s face with dog-like, beseeching eyes. The girl’s eyes were like hard, bright stones, save for that watchful look of fear, of expectation; but, presently, they softened. The old kindness, the thought of her father and her home, flowed over her like a wave, shook her like a wind. She smiled, and tried hard to make it her own smile; she patted Joe’s shoulder with a friendly touch, and pointed to a chair. But Joe still crouched on the floor gazing at her. “Ye’re lookin’ well, Isly!” he said at length; and the two onlookers started at the sound of his voice, so tense had the silence grown. “Ye’re looking real well, and growed a perfec’ lady, as I always knowed.” He paused a moment; then went on.