they called
'Mother Meg,' came into my room in great haste to tell me to get up.
When I was dressed my husband entered and laughingly said that we must
go on board the yacht at once. I was perplexed and a little cross about
it; but when we were rowed out to the ship, I found that all the white
people were leaving the island in boats and being rowed to those rocks
which lie upon the northward side. Edmond tells me that there are
dangerous seasons in this beautiful place, when the whole island is
unfit for human habitation and all must leave it, sometimes for a week,
sometimes for a month."

I put the paper down and turned another page of it.

"That, you see," said I, "is written on the 14th of August, before she
knew the true story or what the dangerous time might mean. Passing on,
I find another entry on September 21st, and that makes it clearer:

"There is here a wonderful place they call 'The House Under the Sea.'
It is built for those who cannot escape the sleep-time otherwise. I am
to go there when my husband sails for Europe. I have asked to accompany
him and am refused. There are less delicate ways of reminding a woman
that she has lost her liberty.

"November 13th.--I have again asked Edmond to permit me to accompany
him to London. He answers that he has his reasons. There is a way of
speaking to a woman she can never forget. My husband spoke in that way
this morning.

"December 12th.--I know Edmond's secret, and he knows that I know it!
Shall I tell it to the winds and the waves? Who else will listen? Let
me ask of myself courage. I can neither think nor act to-night.

"December 25th.--Christmas Day! I am alone. A year ago--but what shall
it profit to remember a year ago? I am in a prison-house beneath the
sea, and the waves beat against my windows with their moaning cry,
'Never, never again--never again!' At night, when the tide has fallen,
I open my window and send a message to the sea. Will any hear it? I
dare not hope.

"January 1st.--My husband has returned from his cruise. He is to go to
Europe to see after my affairs. Will he tell them, I wonder, that Ruth
Bellenden is dead?

"January 8th.--The sleep-time has now lasted for nine weeks. They tell
me that vapours rise up from the land and lie above it like a cloud.
Some think they come from the great poppies which grow in the marshy
fields of the lowlands; others say from the dark pools in the gorges of
the hills. However it may be, those that rem