As with potatoes--so with children. He and she, growths of the larger world, had found unlooked-for happiness through the accident of their transplantation to this outer isle. But they brought with them the strength of heart and mind that had come to them through contact with that other world. In many respects it was a vain and hollow world. The change had made entirely for their good and happiness. But--these little ones! ... Were they to be condemned for ever to the sweet narrow groove of this island life, which to their father and mother, by reason of the wonder of their love, had been like Paradise? To the children no such transformation, no such veritable transfiguration of life as had been theirs would be possible. They could, indeed, teach them all they knew themselves--all the essentials at all events. They could train their hearts and brains to highest things. But in time the children would feel what the island life entailed and denied them--what their lives were missing. The higher their development the keener would be their regrets. "Dear," he said, clasping her closer, as she lay in the hollow of his arm before the fire that night, "I know what you are thinking. It came on me, and it came to you, when I was criticising those degenerate potatoes." "I suppose it must have been lurking somewhere in my heart," she said quietly. "But it all came on me with a rush as you spoke. You and I desire no better. It has been wonderful ... perfect happiness. But for them...." "Yes," he said soberly. "For them it would be different. For them we desire the very best. And here they cannot get it." And so they were face to face with the mighty problem which thenceforth must of necessity be constantly in their minds and hearts. For themselves, all that the outside world could give them could add no whit to their perfect content and happiness. But for the children's sakes ... how to cross that treacherous hundred miles of sea which barred the way to the wider--in some respects wider,--to the larger--in some respects larger,--to the questionably happier life, which yet these newcomers must prove for themselves, as was their right? They discussed it quietly and at great length that night, but could see no way out, and for the moment he could find no further comfort for her than this--and yet it was much,--"Providence, which has done so much for us," said he, "may in time do this also. Meanwhile the Island life is all to the good for them. They are splendid little specimens, and if they run wild and free for some years they will reap the benefit all their lives. We will hope and pray, and puzzle our brains for them." Hope they did. And pray they did. But no amount of brain-puzzling afforded them any solution of their difficulty.