A few minutes later, a brilliant scarlet figure, she was wading out again, knee deep, waist deep. Then with a joyful plunge she swam forward through the sun-warmed water. She came abreast of the corner of her bay, the eastern point of Delginish, turned on her back and splashed deliciously, sending columns of glistening foam high into the air. Standing upright with outspread hands and head thrown back, she trod water, gazing straight up into the sky. She lay motionless on her back, totally immersed save for eyes, nostrils and mouth. A noise of oars roused her. She rolled over, swam a stroke or two, and saw Flanagan’s old boat come swiftly down the channel. The stranger, who had courted disaster by fouling the steamer’s warp, tugged unskilfully at his oars. He headed for the island. Priscilla shouted to him. “Keep out,” she said. “You’re going straight for the rocks.” The young man in the boat turned round and stared at her. “Pull your right oar,” said Priscilla. The young man pulled both oars hard, missed the water with his right and fell backwards to the bottom of the boat. His two feet stuck up ridiculously. Priscilla laughed. The boat, swept forward by the tide, grounded softly on the sea wrack which covered the rocks. “There you are, now,” said Priscilla. “Why didn’t you do what I told you?” The young man struggled to his feet, seized an oar and began to push violently. “That’s no use,” said Priscilla, swimming close under the rocks. “You’ll have to hop out or you’ll be stuck there till the tide rises, and that won’t be till swell on in the afternoon.” The young man eyed the water doubtfully. Then he spoke for the first time. “Is it very deep?” he said. “Where you are,” said Priscilla, “it’s quite shallow, but if you step over the edge of the rock there’s six foot of water and more.” The young man sat down and began to unlace his boots. “If you wait to do that,” said Priscilla, “you’ll be high and dry altogether. Never mind your boots. Hop out and shove.” He stepped cautiously over the side of his boat, seized his gunwale and shoved. The boat slipped off the rock, stern first. The young man staggered, loosed his hold on her and then stood gaping helplessly, ankle deep in water perched on a very slippery rock, while the boat slipped away from him, stemming the tide as long as the impulse of his push lasted. “What shall I do now?” he asked. “Stand where you are,” said Priscilla. “She’ll drift down to you again. I’ll give her a shove so that she’ll come right up to you.” She swam after the boat and laid a hand on her gunwale. Then, kicking and splashing, guided her back to the young man on the rock. He climbed on board. “Where do you suppose you’re going?” asked Priscilla. “To an island,” said the young man. “If one island is the same to you as another,” said Priscilla, “and you haven’t any particular one in your mind, I’d advise you to stop at this one.” “But I have.” “Which one?”