winding-stairs, and the cold air breathed upon their faces. The brass
door at the foot of the stairs stood open. From that door thirty feet
of gun-metal rungs let in to the outside of the lighthouse lead down
to the set-off, which is a granite rim less than a yard wide, and
unprotected by any rail. They shouted downwards from the doorway,
and received no answer. They descended to the set-off, and again no
Garstin, not even his cap. He was not.

Garstin had entered up the log, had climbed down to the set-off for
five minutes of fresh air, and somehow had slipped, though the wind
was light and the sea whispering. But the whispering sea ran seven
miles an hour past the Bishop.

This was Mrs. Garstin's story and it left me still wondering why she
lived on at St. Mary's. I asked after her son.

"How is Leopold? What is he--a linen-draper?" She shaded her eyes with
her hand and said:

"That's the St. Agnes' lugger from the Bishop, and if we go down to
the pier now we shall meet it."

We walked down to the pier. The first person to step on shore was
Leopold, with the Trinity House buttons on his pilot coat.

"He's the third hand on the Bishop now," said Mrs. Garstin. "You are
surprised?" She sent Leopold into Hugh Town upon an errand, and as we
walked back up the hill she said: "Did you notice a grave underneath
John's tablet?"