The little sea-girt homeland of Hutton’s Isle had never recovered from the fatal devastation of the great tempest and flood. The fences had never been reconstructed strong and complete as before. The house had never been properly repaired. All the little mending and rebuilding that had been done had been the joint work of Miss Joe and her factotum, Pontius Pilate. And these slight repairs were of such a temporary character as to require renewal every few months. And every year the house sank and fell, and grew more ruinous and dilapidated. And every year the isle became more desolate and desert. Every season the soil was less productive and the crop poorer. The oyster banks had failed entirely. The fisheries were becoming precarious. Nothing remained in primeval abundance except in the flocks of water-fowl that still flew in vast clouds over the isle, darkening the very air at certain times, like night or storm. So much for the house and isle. Now for the inmates and inhabitants. From having been always poor they were now upon the verge of penury—destitution. Miss Josephine Cotter, the good fairy of this sea-girt isle, was, to use her own expression, growing older and older every day of her life. She did not know, she said, which was most likely to topple down first, she or her old house. The death of Pontius Pilate in the beginning of the winter, and a severe attack of rheumatism in her limbs, had seemed to be the climax of the poor old lady’s misfortunes. It was immediately after the burial of Pontius Pilate that Miss Joe was sitting down in the depth of despair, with her apron thrown over her head, and her head bowed upon her knees, Hugh and Garnet suddenly stood before her. “Don’t cry any more, granny. I and Nettie can work the farm,” said Hugh, in a cheerful, confident tone. “You and Nettie work the farm!” replied Miss Joe, looking up with pity, anger, and contempt in the expression of her countenance and in the tone of her voice. To her, a woman past sixty, the boy of twelve and the girl of nine seemed yet infants. “You and Nettie work the farm!” “Yes, granny, and haul the wood, and fish, and shoot——” “Pah, pah! Hush talking, you make my head ache.” “Granny, I have sometimes taken the plow from Pont and plowed a row for fun. I know a little practice would make me perfect at that.” “Granny, Hugh can hoe up the hills, and I can drop corn. Hugh can cut wood, and I can fetch and carry it. And now, as there is no fish near the isle, Hugh can go out in the boat, and I can go with him to bait his hooks and look after the basket.” And do you guess all the hard and manifold work they did?