this island. Those sea-birds, too, were all shot
from here."

"What strange little creatures!" she murmured. "You seem to find quite
a lot of time to read and do other things beside fish, Mr. Andrew," she
remarked, as she looked over his bookcases. "You puzzle me very much
sometimes. I had no idea," she added, looking at him hesitatingly,
"that people who have to work, as you have to, for a living, understood
and read books like this."

"Ah, well," he answered, "I had perhaps a little more education than
some of them."

The servant returned with some more things upon a tray. Jeanne sat down
with a little laugh in front of the teapot. She was very much afraid of
saying more than was polite, and she felt that she was amongst utterly
strange surroundings. Yet it seemed to her a most extraordinary thing
that a fisherman in a country village should possess a silver teapot
and old Worcester china, and should be waited upon by a man servant
even though he were the man servant of a lodger.

CHAPTER XVIII

The storm died away with the coming of evening, but a great sea still
broke upon the island beach and floated up the estuary. Andrew stood
outside his door and looked across toward the mainland with a perplexed
frown. It was barely a hundred yards crossing, but it was certain that
no boat could live for half the distance. Jeanne, who had recovered her
spirits, stood by his side, and smiled as she saw the white crested
waves come rolling up.

"It is beautiful, this," she declared. "Do you not love to feel the
spray on your cheeks, Mr. Andrew? And how salt it smells, and fresh!"

"That is all very well," Andrew answered, "but I am wondering how we
are going to get over to the other side there."

"I do not think," she answered, "that it will be possible for a long,
long time. You will have to take me as a lodger whether you want to or
not. I would not trust myself in a boat even with you, upon a sea like
that."

"It will be high tide in half an hour," Andrew said, "and the sea will
go down fast enough then."

"It may not," she answered hopefully. "I rather believe that there is
another storm blowing up."

"There will be no dinner for you," he warned her.

"That I can endure cheerfully," she declared. "I am sick of dinners. I
hate them. They come much too soon, and one has always the same things
to eat. I am quite sure that I shall dine quite nicely with you, Mr.
Andrew."

He glanced at his watch and loo