“I have not wished to see any,” he said; and then he smiled gently as he saw my stare of amazement. “I have not wished for anything,” he said gently; “I have a home, as you shall see, and I have never needed company. Have you forgotten how it used to be, dear brother?” It took me a long time to understand his words. I was still gazing at him helplessly. “And you mean,” I cried—“you mean that you still—you still live in your music?” “Yes,” he said, “I mean that.” I was sitting upright and gripping his arm tightly. “And for twenty years!” I gasped. “Twenty thousand years would be all too little for music,” was the reply. I sank back, and he wrapped his arms about me. “Dear brother,” he said, smiling, “let us not go into that just now. Wait until to-morrow, at the least. Perhaps I can help you now, and we can walk.” We had not far to go, and with his help I managed the task. Back from the shore rose a high cliff, and a cavern in this was evidently his home. At one side there was a pen, in which were three or four captive goats; and upon the grassy lawn in front was a rough seat. With the exception of a fireplace, and a path he had cut through the thicket, there were no other signs that the place was inhabited. I sank down upon the grass, and he brought me fresh water and fruits, and cooked rice, which I ate hungrily. Then, when I was stronger, I got up and began to examine his home. The cave was the size of a large room; it was dry, but bare of all furniture except a table and a roughly made chair and bed. My brother’s possessions consisted mainly of a few objects (notably some tools) which he and the sailors had been able to recover from the wreck of the ship. There were a few skins which served him as bags in which to keep his provisions; his bowls and dishes were gourds and the shells of turtles. He was without artificial light, and he had only a few quires of writing-paper from the ship-captain’s portfolio. For the rest, a violin without strings, and a bow without hairs, made up a list of the possessions so far as I could make them out. And it was upon the strength of these that he had said to me: “I have everything that I need!” With rest and food my strength returned, and before long my mind was altogether occupied with my brother. First of all, of course, my thought was of his home—of his surroundings and his ways. I rummaged about his cavern, wondering at his makeshifts—or rather, at his lack of them. “You have no lamp?” I cried. “But, Daniel, the wax-plant grows in this climate. Or you might use tallow or oil.” “Dear brother,” he answered, “you forget that I have no books to read. And the few things that need light—cannot I just as well do them by day?” “But, then, the long nights—you sleep?” “No,” said he gently, “I do not sleep”; and later, with his strange smile, he added: “I live.” “You live!” I echoed in perplexity; and then I stopped, catching the quiet, steady gaze of his eyes.