“The storm that wrecks the winter’s sky No more disturbs their sweet repose Than summer evening’s latest sigh That shuts the rose. “I know that, too,” said Edith. “It is by James Montgomery. It is also a hymn.” “And another of those I heard in childhood,” I answered eagerly. “The favorite of—of one who perished—Come on! everybody, I must see what this means!” The singing had ceased now, but we hastily scrambled over the rocks in the direction from which it had come. Pushing out from behind a great bowlder we looked down a little slope upon what at first seemed to be a heap of bowlders. Then we saw that it was the construction of human hands—a habitation. We descended quickly, though almost in silence, only whispering caution to each other. A rolling stone, however, slipped from beneath my foot and went plunging to the side of the hut. A moment later there stepped out into view a curious fur-clad figure—tall, bearded, and with masses of grizzled hair upon his shoulders. An aged man he seemed, but bronzed, erect, and with the movement of strength. A moment he looked at us as if doubting his vision. Then, flinging both arms in the air, he gave a great cry of welcome. We rushed down and surrounded him. He seized our hands wildly. “Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you? And why are you here?” But I besought him with fierce eagerness. “Tell us, first, who _you_ are!” I commanded, “and why _you_ are here!” “Oh, it does not matter,” he answered, “I have been dead twenty years! But when I was in the world of men I was called Nicholas Lovejoy.” “Then,” I shouted, “you are my uncle—for I am Nicholas Chase!” XXXIX. WHERE DREAMS BECOME REAL. In the little hut which he had built, and where all the years he had lived alone, he told us his story. It was hardly more than a word. When the vessel went down, he had drifted with one other, on a spar, to this island. The other had died next day from exposure, and was buried not far away. And winter and summer for twenty-one years the survivor had waited for those who never came. At first he had hoisted the spar with a signal, but long since he had lost hope, and when at last a wind blew it down he had not replaced it. His speech he had preserved by singing and reciting such things as he knew, and so comforted himself. Less than seventy years old, he was still a man of strength and vigor. In return I informed him of our plight and briefly outlined our previous expedition. When I had finished my Uncle Nicholas regarded me for a moment in silence. Then, smiling: “So, Nick, you found the warm South Pole. My boy, I have believed in it for fifty years.” “I always thought of you in that way,” I said. “I knew you would have helped me. I even thought you might have gone there.”