"The Island? Oh, yes, I dessay we'll get there sometime or another. What're you doin'?" she asked, for he had leapt out of bed and run to the window. "Looking for it." But the Island was not visible. This gable of the house fronted a steep coombe, which doubtless wound its way to the sea, since far to the right a patch of sea shone beyond a notch in the enfolding slopes. "It'll stay there, don't you fret," Tilda promised. "'Wish I could be as sure that _we'd_ stay _'ere_: though, far as I can see, we're safe enough for a few days. The old lady's puzzled about me. I reckon she don't attend circuses--nor the Minister neither--an' that Child-Acrobat turn fairly fetched 'em. They set it down to the 'fects of grace. I 'eard them talkin' it over, an' that was 'ow the Minister put it-- whatever 'e meant." "Well, but wasn't it?" Arthur Miles had come back from the window, and stood at the foot of the bed in a nightshirt many sizes too large for him. "Wasn't it _wot?_" "Hadn't--hadn't it anything to do with the praying?" "Garn!" Tilda chuckled. "But I'm glad it took _you_ in too. The foolishness was my overdoin' it with 'Dolph. Dogs don't 'ave any religion, it seems; and it rattled 'em a bit, 'is be'avin' like a person that 'ad just found salvation. The Minister talked some science about it to Mother Tossell--said as 'ow dogs 'adn't no souls but a 'eap of _sympathy_; and it ended by 'er 'avin' a good cry over me when she tucked me up for the night, an' sayin' as after all I might be a brand plucked from the burnin'. But it didn' take in Miss Chrissy, as I could tell from the look in 'er eyes."