It was at the close of a day in June that the Joyces sat in front of the little cabin, repairing their nets, and getting their tackle in readiness for the sea. For some time previous the weather had been broken and unfavorable. Strong west winds and heavy seas--far from infrequent in these regions, even in midsummer--had rendered fishing impracticable; but now the aspect of a new moon, rising full an hour before sunset, gave promise of better, and old Joyce had got the launch drawn up on shore to refit, and sails were spread out upon the rocks to dry, and coils of rope, and anchors, and loose spars littered the little space before the door. The scene was a busy and not an unpicturesque one. There was every age, from the oldest to very infancy, all active, all employed. Some were calking the seams of the boat, others overhauled sails and cordage; some were preparing the nets, attaching cork floats or sinkers; and two chubby urchins, mere infants, laughing, fed the fire that blazed beneath a large pitch-pot, the light blue smoke rising calmly into the air, and telling those far away that the lone rock was not without inhabitants. To all seeming, these signs of life and habitation bad attracted notice; for a small boat which had quitted Innishmore for the mainland some time before, now altered her course, and was seen slowly bearing up towards the Brannocks. Though the sea was calm and waveless, the wind was only sufficient to waft her along at the slowest rate; a twinkling flash of the sea at intervals showed, however, that her crew were rowing, and at length the measured beat of the oars could be distinctly heard. Many were the speculations of those who watched her course. They knew she was not a fishing-craft; her light spars and white sails were sufficient to refute that opinion. Neither was she one of the revenue-boats. What could she be, then, since no large ship was in sight to which she could have belonged? It is only to those who have at some one period or other of life sojourned in some lone spot of earth, away from human intercourse, that the anxiety of these poor people could be intelligible. If, good reader,--for to you we now appeal,--it has not been your lot to have once on a time lived remote from the world and its ways, you cannot imagine how intensely interesting can become the commonest of those incidents which mark ordinary existence. They assume, indeed, very different proportions from the real, and come charged with innumerable imaginings about that wondrous life, far, far away, where there are thoughts and passions and deeds and events which never enter into the dreamland of exile! It was a little after sunset that the boat glided into the small creek which formed the only harbor of the island; and the moment after, a young girl sprang on the shore, and hastened towards them. [Illustration: 334]