“For the love of God, Miss,” said Kinsella, “say no more. I’ll try if I can find a sup somewhere for the gentleman. But as for what you’re after saying about distilling----” “Hurry up,” said Priscilla threateningly. Kinsella went off at a sharp trot towards the south end of the island. “Of course,” said Priscilla in a calmer tone, “he really may not have any more. That might have been the last barrel which I saw under the gravel the day before yesterday when our anchor rope got foul of the centreboard. I don’t expect it was quite the last, but it may have been. It’s very hard to be sure about things like that. However, if it was the last he’ll just have to turn to and distil some more. I don’t suppose it takes very long, and there was a fire burning on the south end of the island this morning. I saw it.” Half an hour later Lord Torrington, wrapped in two blankets and a patchwork quilt, clothing which he had chosen in preference to Joseph Antony’s Sunday suit, was sitting in front of a blazing fire in the Kinsellas’ kitchen. He held in his hand a mug full of raw spirit and hot water, mixed in equal proportions. Each time he sipped at it he coughed. Priscilla sat beside him with a bottle from which she offered to replenish the mug after each sip. Lady Isabel, looking frightened but obstinate, stood opposite him, holding the Reverend Barnabas Pennefather by the hand. CHAPTER XXII “To Miss Martha Rutherford, Sponge Department, British Museum, London. “My dear Miss Rutherford--Having promised to write you the dénouement, I do, of course; though the delay is longer than I expected when promising. It was most exciting. Peter Walsh upset the Tortoise--on purpose I now think--but no one else has said so yet--and Lord Torrington swam for his life while his lovely daughter wrung her lily hands in shrill despair, this being the exact opposite of what was the case with Lord Ullin’s daughter. Joseph Antony Kinsella and Jimmy and I rescued the drowning mariner in your boat. Frank would have done so too, for he says he never rescued any one from a watery grave--though he won a prize for life-saving in his swimming bath at school and I think he wanted to get a medal--but none of us have as yet, nor won’t--but he couldn’t get down the hill quick enough on account of his sprained ankle, so we were off without him. I jolly well ballyragged Joseph Antony Kinsella until he opened his last cask of illicit whisky. ‘Illicit’ is what both father and Lord Torrington called it and at first I didn’t know what that meant, but I looked it out in the dict. and now do know, also how to spell it, which I shouldn’t otherwise. Then we had a most frightful scene in Joseph Antony Kinsella’s cottage. Lady Isabel was splendid. I never knew any one could be in love so much, especially with Barnabas. The salt sea was frozen on her cheeks (it had been raining hard), and the salt tears in her eyes. Sylvia Courtney told me that that poem was most affecting, so I read it.