We pushed our way inland, and farther down the coast. There was a sparse moss vegetation here and there, and on one sunny bank we found a considerable bed of this growth. Edith Gale dropped down upon it luxuriously, and the rest of us followed her example. “Oh, how beautiful!” she cried, “and how I loathe the ship! It seems to me that I could stay here forever!” Zar grunted approvingly, but Gale said: “I’d be glad enough to hurry back to the old Billowcrest if she was only afloat. We’ll get tired enough of this, I’m thinking, before that happens.” I made no comment on this, but called attention to a ledge of rocks just beyond. “Looks as if somebody had been hammering on it,” I said. “I suppose nobody lives on these islands.” “Not a soul crreature,” declared Mr. Larkins. “Forthy year ago they used to come here for the furr-seals, but they got the last of ’em in a shmall bit of a time. No pay in comin’ for the little hair fellies. ’Tis said they’s gold here, too, but I’ve never met the man that saw the color of it.” We rose and walked on. We had grown a bit chilly, sitting, and would presently return to the vessel. All at once, Edith Gale stopped and held up her hand. “Wait—listen!” she commanded. Borne to us on a light breeze from the south, came the sound of a voice singing. We looked at each other startled. There was something about it, most uncanny. “My good lawd!” groaned Zar. “Dat’s a sho sperritt! Lemme get outen heah an’ back to dat boat.” Mr. Larkins detained her. “Wait,” he said. “There’s a bit of an echo hereabout. The singin’ ’ll be comin’ from the ship, I think.” There was a wave of relief. Then Gale dissented. “That’s not from the ship. The wind isn’t right. It’s from the land——” We hurried to the top of a little rise, just ahead; here we halted and listened again. We could hear much more plainly now. Even the words came quite distinctly. “I’m out of humanity’s reach— I must finish my journey alone. Afar from the music of speech— I start at the sound of my own.” “Selkirk’s hymn,” I whispered. “I know it perfectly. My grandmother sang it to her children, and my mother to me.” “I am monarch of all I survey— My right there is none to dispute— From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.” “Yes! yes! and that, too!” I added, excitedly. “Some one is cast away in this place. Come, we must find him!” “Oh, and quickly!” urged Edith; but the singing had begun again and we hesitated, to listen. “There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found. They softly lie and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground.”