“Mine,” said the other, repressing a smile--“mine is Gervais Vyner.” “And do you own this ship?” “Yes.” “And why have you come here?” “Partly by chance--partly through curiosity.” “And when will you go away?” “Something will depend on the weather--something on whether we like the place and find it agreeable to us; but why do you ask? Do you wish we should go away?” “The people do! I do not care!” It is not easy to give an idea of the haughty dignity with which he spoke the last words. They were like the declaration of one who felt himself so secure in station, that he could treat the accidents of the day as mere trifles. “But why should the people wish it? We are not very likely to molest or injure them.” “That much you may leave to themselves,” said the boy, insolently. “They’ll not let you do it.” “You seem very proud of your island, my little man! Have you any brothers or sisters?” “No--none.” “None belonging to you but father and mother?” “I have no mother now,” said he, with an effort to utter the words unmoved; but the struggle was too much, and he had to turn away his head as he tried to suppress the sobbing that overcame him. “I am very, very sorry to have pained you, my boy,” said Vyner, with kindness. “Come down with me here, and see a little daughter of mine, who is nearly your own age.” “I don’t want to see her. I want to go ashore.” “So you shall, my boy; but you will eat something with us first, and see the strange place we live in. Come along;” and he took his hand to lead him forward. “I could swim to the land if I liked,” said the boy, as he gazed down at the blue water. “But you’ll not have to swim, Harry.” “Why do you call me Harry? I never knew _you_.” “I have a better claim than you suspect. At least, I used to call your father John long ago.” “Don’t do it any more, then,” said he, defiantly. “And why?” “He wouldn’t bear it--that is the why! Stand clear, there!” cried he to one of the sailors on the gangway. “I’m off!” and he prepared himself for a run ere he jumped overboard, but just at this moment Ada tripped up the cabin ladder and stood before him. The long yellow ringlets fell on her shoulders and her neck, and her lustrous blue eyes were wide in astonishment at the figure in front of her. As for the boy, he gazed at her as at something of unearthly beauty. It was to his eyes that Queen of the Fairies who might have soared on a light cloud, or tripped daintily on the crest of the wide sea waves. “Here is a playfellow for you, Ada,” said her father, as he led her towards him. “It is Robinson Crusoe, papa,” said she, in a whisper. The boy’s quick ear had, however, caught the words, and he said quickly, “I wish I was Robinson!” The speech seemed to strike some chord in the little girl’s heart, for she went freely towards him at once, and said, “Oh, wasn’t it nice to live in that pretty island, and have everything one’s own?” “This island here is mine!” said the boy, proudly.