The house was of stone, one story high, with thick walls. The small,
deep-set windows and the low ceilings gave the rooms the air of a
prison; but there was also an air of security about them: for, in
looking from the narrow windows, one felt that the house was a
steadfast ship in the circle of the turbulent sea, whose waves from
every point seemed advancing towards it. A pale, coarse grass grew in
the sand of the island. It was too feeble to resist the acrid breath of
the ocean, so it shuddered perpetually, and bent landward, as if
invoking the protection of its stepmother, the solid earth.

"It is perfect," said Redmond to me; "I have been looking for this spot
all my life; I am ready to swear that I will never leave it."

We were sitting in a window, facing each other. He looked out toward
the west, and presently was lost in thought. He folded his arms tightly
across his breast, and his eyes were a hundred miles away. The sound of
a fiddle in the long alley which led from the house to the tower broke
his reverie.

"We shall be uproarious before we leave," I said; "we always are, when
we come here."

The fun had already set in. Some of the girls had pinned up their
dresses, and borrowed aprons from the light-house keeper's wife, and
with scorched faces were helping her to make chowder and fry
fish. Others were arranging the table, assisted by the young men, who
put the dishes in the wrong places. Others were singing in the best
room. One or two had brought novels along, and were reading them in
corners. It was all merry and pleasant, but I felt quiet. Redmond
entered into the spirit of the scene. I had never seen him so gay. He