But our house was open. None of the observances of the rites of
hospitality was lacking. Gleams of good humour dispersed the gloom on the
faces of our guests. They had penetrated the thin disguise of clothes,
and it was then that I silently wished in Portia's words that "God might
grant them a fair departure."

Another class of visitor came on a misty morning in a fussy little
launch. After preliminary greetings on the beach he remarked on my name,
presuming that I belonged to a Scotch family.

"A good family, I do not question."

"Oh, yes. A family of excellent and high repute."

"Then, I cannot be any connection, for I am proud to confess that our
family is distinguished--greatly distinguished--by a very bad name. It
comes from Kent. I am a kinsman of a king--the King of the Beggars!"

"Ah! Quite a coincidence. I remarked to my friend as we came up to your
Island: 'If the exile is a descendant of the King of the Beggars, this
is just the kind of life he would be likely to adopt.'"

"Exactly. I am indeed complimented. Blood--the blood of the vagabond--will
tell!"

And my friendly visitor--a man whom the King had delighted to
honour--with whimsical glances at my clothes, which tended to "sincerity
rather then ceremony," strolled along the beach.

If we were disposed to vaunt ourselves, have we not, in this simplicity