ty of Mrs. Stuart, and rarely accompanied the children on their
rambles, but to-day they had brought him with them to the island.

"It _is_ my basket," grumbled Belle, threading her way daintily between
the brambles with a careful regard for her flowered delaine dress. "Mrs.
Barrington lent it to me first. The Rokebys are so selfish, they want to
keep everything to themselves. I don't know whether they or the Wrights
are worse. It's such a pretty one, too--quite the nicest we have at the
hut."

"Never mind," said Isobel hastily, anxious to dismiss the subject. "Let
us fill it with blackberries. There are such heaps here, and such big
ones."

It was indeed a harvest for those who liked to gather. Brambles grew
everywhere. Long clinging sprays, some still in blossom and some covered
with the ripe fruit, trailed in profusion over the rocks, their
reddening leaves giving a hint of the coming autumn, for it was late
August now, and already there was a touch of September crispness in the
air. It was delightful on the headland, with sea and sky spread all
around, the sea-gulls flapping idly below just on the verge of the
waves, and banks of fragrant wild thyme under their feet, growing in
patches between the great craggy boulders, which looked as though they
had been piled up by some giant at play. The picking went on steadily
for a while, though it was a little unequal, as Belle had a tender
consideration for her spotless fingers, and gathered about one berry to
Isobel's dozen.

"We shall soon have the basket full," said Isobel. "Hold it for a
moment, Belle, please, while I get to the other side of this rock; there
are some still finer ones over here."

"I should think we have enough now," said Belle, upon whom the
occupation began to pall. "We don't want to make any more jam; the last
we tried stuck to the pan and burnt, and wasted all the sugar I had
brought. Mother says she won't let me have any more. Come back, Isobel,
do, and take the basket. Why, what are you staring at so hard?"

"At this stone underneath the brambles," replied Isobel. "It's most
peculiar. It has marks on it like letters, only they aren't any letters
I know. Do come and look."

She pulled the long blackberry trails aside as she spoke, and disclosed
to view a large stone, something like a gate-post, lying on its side,
half sunk into the soil. It was worn, and weather-beaten, and battered
by time and storms, but on its smooth surface could still