After a laborious clamber he reached the top, and walked along the
plateau towards the eastern village. The time being about two o'clock,
in the middle of the summer season, the road was glaring and dusty, and
drawing near to his father's house he sat down in the sun.

He stretched out his hand upon the rock beside him. It felt warm.
That was the island's personal temperature when in its afternoon sleep
as now. He listened, and heard sounds: whirr-whirr, saw-saw-saw.
Those were the island's snores--the noises of the quarrymen and stone-
sawyers.

Opposite to the spot on which he sat was a roomy cottage or homestead.
Like the island it was all of stone, not only in walls but in window-
frames, roof, chimneys, fence, stile, pigsty and stable, almost door.

He remembered who had used to live there--and probably lived there now-
-the Caro family; the 'roan-mare' Caros, as they were called to
distinguish them from other branches of the same pedigree, there being
but half-a-dozen Christian and surnames in the whole island. He
crossed the road and looked in at the open doorway. Yes, there they
were still.

Mrs. Caro, who had seen him from the window, met him in the entry, and
an old-fashioned greeting took place between them. A moment after a
door leading from the back rooms was thrown open, and a young girl
about seventeen or eighteen came bounding in.

'Why, 'TIS dear Joce!' she burst out joyfully. And running up to the
young man, she kissed him.