king had
long ago died away. . . . Oh, if he were dead, and she must search the
Island alone for him!

Poor child! for the moment her nerve deserted her. With a strangling
sob she ran towards the beach-head, and began to clamber up the low
cliff leading to the gully.

"Til-da! Hi! Til-da!"

From the ledge of the cliff she stared up, and with another sob.
High on the ridge that closed the gully stood Arthur Miles, safe and
sound. He was waving both arms.

"I've found it!" he called.

"Found w'ot?"

"The House." He came running down to meet her as she scrambled her way
up the gully. "It's not a Cave, but a House." They met, both panting.
"You were right, after all," he announced, and in a voice that shook
with excitement. He had forgotten their quarrel; he had no room for
remembrance of it; sheer joy filled him so full. "It's not a Cave, but
a House; and with _such_ things to eat!"

"Things to eat?" she echoed dully, and for an instant her heart sank
again at the suspicion that after all he was mad, and here was another
proof of it. But her eyes were fixed on something he held out in his
hand. "What's that you've got?"

"Marmalade--real marmalade! And a spoon too--there are heaps of spoons
and cups and glasses, and a fire ready laid. And--see here--biscuits!"
He produced a handful from his pocket. "I brought these things along
because you said you were hungry."

Still incredulous, distrusting her eyes, Tilda watched him dip out a
small spoonful of marmalade and spread it on the biscuit. She took it
and ate, closing her eyes. The taste was heavenly.

"Oh, Arthur Miles, where are we?"

"Why, on the Island. Didn't I tell you it was going to be all right?"

He said it in mere elation, without a hint of reproach.

"I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? What is there to be sorry about? Come along."

They climbed the turfy slope in silence, Tilda too deep in amaze for
speech. By and by she asked irrelevantly--

"Where is 'Dolph?"

"Eh? 'Dolph? He was with me five minutes ago. Off chasing rabbits, I
expect. He has missed catching about two dozen already."

"Isn't that his bark? Listen . . . away to the right."

They stood still for a while.

"Sounds like it," said the boy; "and yet not exactly like."

"It's 'Dolph, and he's in some sort of trouble. That's not 'is usual
bark."

"We'd best see what it is, I suppose, and fetch him along."
Arthur Miles struck aside from the line they had been