IN this story of Tom Granger I have undertaken to divide that which I am writing into chapters and parts, in the same manner that novel writers sometimes divide their novels and tales. I find that it keeps me more steadily to my course, so that, though I wander now and then from the matter in hand, I always get safely back to my bearings again. If you will go with me to the end, you will find that I have spun my yarn to the last word, though it may be in my own fashion. Every one has read tales of shipwreck and of lonely islands, and there is generally something romantic and even pleasant in them; but in real shipwreck there is nothing either romantic or pleasant; neither is a desert island a cheerful place to dwell upon. I say this because I wish you to understand why it is that I do not intend to give you a long account of the life that they led at this place. Nevertheless, I would not have you think from that which I have just written that Tom and Jack were altogether miserable during the year and a half that they lived there. Many times they were sick at heart looking for the aid that was so long in coming; but there were other times when they were full of hopes, and times when they were even happy. Neither was the place a barren, desolate, dreary sand waste, such as are many of the Bahama Islands. They saw many curious and beautiful things during the time of their living there. As an instance I may say that when Tom came away he brought with him a parcel of as handsome shells as ever I saw in all my life. They are now piled upon the mantle-shelf in my parlor. I have them before my eyes as I write these words. There is a large one upon the centre-table that has a full-rigged ship wrought upon it. It was carved with a jack-knife, and it shows the work of many idle moments, when Tom sat beside the fire in front of their hut at night, with Jack Baldwin for company. Oftentimes a great longing has come upon Tom to visit the old place once more, and to see those things again which he learned to know so well. As I sit here now, and close my eyes, I can see many of them with my inward sight. I can even see them more clearly than when the memory of them was fresh and green, for, as the eyes of one’s body become dim and blurred, the eyes of memory become ever sharper and keener, so that not even the smallest thing escapes their sight. So now I can see the place that was Tom’s home for sixteen months so long ago, as plainly as though I had left it only yesterday. I can see the cave in the side of the sand-hill, the cutter turned bottom up for the roof, and the screen of woven grass that hung in front to keep the rain from beating in. I can even see the tame sea-gull sitting on the keel of the upturned boat.