"The provisions here are left for any mariners who may find themselves shipwrecked on this Island. All such are welcome to make use of what accommodation they find here. Casual visitors will kindly respect the intention with which this house is kept open, and will leave the place strictly as they find it." "(Signed) MILES CHANDON, Bart." From the next room came the sound of a window opened and a shutter thrown wide, and Tilda's voice announced-- "Well, I never! Beds!" "Beds?" "Beds--_and_ sheets--_and_ blankets." Tilda reappeared in the doorway. "A 'ole reel 'ouse! But why?--and 'ow in the world?" Arthur Miles held out the card. "It's for sailors shipwrecked here." Tilda studied the notice. "And we 're shipwrecked! Well, if this ain't the loveliest. A reel 'ouse, with reel beds an' sorsepans!" Her jaw dropped. "An' I flung that blessed book away just as it was tellin' about breakfast dishes!" CHAPTER XXIV. GLASSON IN CHASE. "_Prospero: Hey, Mountain, hey! Ariel: Silver, there it goes, Silver!_"--THE TEMPEST. Like most men of fifty or thereabouts, and like every man who finds himself at that age a bachelor rector of a remote country parish, Parson Chichester had collected a number of small habits or superstitions--call them which you will: they are the moss a sensible stone gathers when it has ceased rolling. He smoked a pipe in the house or when he walked abroad, but a Manila cheroot (he belonged to the age of cheroots) when he rode or drove; and he never rode on a Sunday, but either walked or used a dog-cart. Also by habit--or again, if you please, superstition--he preached one sermon, not necessarily a new one, every week. To-day he had broken through this last custom, but observed the others. After an abbreviated Morning Service he lit a cheroot, climbed into his dog-cart, and drove off towards Meriton at a brisk pace, being due to perform his errand there and report himself at Meriton by three in the afternoon. For luncheon he carried a box of sandwiches and a flask of whisky and water. His horse--a tall, free-stepping bay, by name Archdeacon--was, properly speaking, a hunter, and the Parson, in driving as in riding him, just rattled him along, letting him feel the rein but seldom, or never using it to interfere with his pace.