LITMIR.BIZ

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that was now pulling briskly out from the land.

      “Well, Sir, as well as I can make out, it’s a child,” said he, as he drew the telescope from the slings, and began to adjust it. “Yes, Sir, it’s a native they have caught, and a wild-looking specimen too;” and he handed the glass to Vyner.

      “Poor little fellow! He seems dressed in rabbit-skins. Where is Ada? She must see him.”

CHAPTER IV. ON BOARD.

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      “It was not an easy matter to get him to come, Sir,” said the sailor in a whisper to Vyner, as he assisted the boy to get on the deck.

      “Where did you find him?”

      “Sitting all alone on that rocky point yonder, Sir; he seemed to have been crying, and we suspect he has run away from home.”

      Vyner now turned to look at the child, who all this while stood calm and composed, amazed, it is true, by all he saw around him, yet never suffering his curiosity to surprise him into a word of astonishment. In age from ten to twelve, he was slightly though strongly built, and carried himself erect as a soldier. The dress which Vyner at first thought was entirely made of skins was only in reality trimmed with these, being an attempt to make the clothes he had long worn sufficiently large for him. His cap alone was of true island make, and was a conical contrivance of undressed seal-skin, which really had as savage a look as need be.

      “Do you live on this island, my little fellow?” asked Vyner, with a kindly accent.

      “Yes,” said he, calmly, as he looked up full into his face.

      “And have you always lived here?”

      “So long as I remember.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “On the other side of the mountain—at St. Finbar’s Abbey.”

      “May I ask your name?”

      “My name,” said the boy, proudly, “is Harry Grenville Luttrell.”

      “Are you a Luttrell?” cried Vyner, as he laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulders; but the little fellow seemed not to like the familiarity, and stepped back to escape it.

      “Are you the son of John Hamilton Luttrell?”

      “Yes. What is your name?”

      “Mine,” said the other, repressing a smile—“mine is Gervais Vyner.”

      “And do you own this ship?”

      “Yes.”

      “And why have you come here?”

      “Partly by chance—partly through curiosity.”

      “And when will you go away?”

      “Something will depend on the weather—something on whether we like the place and find it agreeable to us; but why do you ask? Do you wish we should go away?”

      “The people do! I do not care!”

      It is not easy to give an idea of the haughty dignity with which he spoke the last words. They were like the declaration of one who felt himself so secure in station, that he could treat the accidents of the day as mere trifles.

      “But why should the people wish it? We are not very likely to molest or injure them.”

      “That much you may leave to themselves,” said the boy, insolently. “They’ll not let you do it.”

      “You seem very proud of your island, my little man! Have you any brothers or sisters?”

      “No—none.”

      “None belonging to you but father and mother?”

      “I have no mother now,” said he, with an effort to utter the words unmoved; but the struggle was too much, and he had to turn away his head as he tried to suppress the sobbing that overcame him.

      “I am very, very sorry to have pained you, my boy,” said Vyner, with kindness. “Come down with me here, and see a little daughter of mine, who is nearly your own age.”

      “I don’t want to see her. I want to go ashore.”

      “So you shall, my boy; but you will eat something with us first, and see the strange place we live in. Come along;” and he took his hand to lead him forward.

      “I could swim to the land if I liked,” said the boy, as he gazed down at the blue water.

      “But you’ll not have to swim, Harry.”

      “Why do you call me Harry? I never knew you.”

      “I have a better claim than you suspect. At least, I used to call your father John long ago.”

      “Don’t do it any more, then,” said he, defiantly.

      “And why?”

      “He wouldn’t bear it—that is the why! Stand clear, there!” cried he to one of the sailors on the gangway. “I’m off!” and he prepared himself for a run ere he jumped overboard, but just at this moment Ada tripped up the cabin ladder and stood before him. The long yellow ringlets fell on her shoulders and her neck, and her lustrous blue eyes were wide in astonishment at the figure in front of her. As for the boy, he gazed at her as at something of unearthly beauty. It was to his eyes that Queen of the Fairies who might have soared on a light cloud, or tripped daintily on the crest of the wide sea waves.

      “Here is a playfellow for you, Ada,” said her father, as he led her towards him.

      “It is Robinson Crusoe, papa,” said she, in a whisper.

      The boy’s quick ear had, however, caught the words, and he said quickly, “I wish I was Robinson!” The speech seemed to strike some chord in the little girl’s heart, for she went freely towards him at once, and said, “Oh, wasn’t it nice to live in that pretty island, and have everything one’s own?”

      “This island here is mine!” said the boy, proudly.

      “Yes, Ada,” said Vyner, “what he, says is quite correct; his father owns the whole of these islands. But come along into the cabin, Harry; I want you to see our home, though it is a very narrow one.”

      With the gravity of a North American Indian, and with a self-possession that never broke down under every trial to which curiosity exposed it, the boy looked at all around him. If Aladdin himself Was not more wonder-struck at the splendours of the cave, he never for a moment betrayed his amazement. He ate and drank, too, with the same air of composure, and bore himself throughout with a quiet dignity that was remarkable. Ada displayed before him her prettiest toys, her games, and her picture-books, and was half piqued at the little evidences of astonishment they created. No suspicion crossed her mind how the colour that came and went and came again, how the hurried breathing, how the clammy fingers that trembled as they touched an object, were signs of emotion far deeper and more intense than all that a cry of wonderment could evidence.

      “I suppose,” said she, at last, when impatience mastered her, “you have got such masses of these yourself, that you don’t care for them?”

      “I—I have nothing—nothing but a crossbow to shoot the seagulls, and a hatchet, and the hatchet is too heavy for me.”

      “But what can you do with a hatchet?” asked she, smiling.

      “Split logs, and cut a way through the thicket like fellows on an uninhabited island; or sometimes I think I’m fighting a bear. I’d like to fight a young bear!—wouldn’t you?”

      “I suspect not. Girls do

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