We had not many neighbours.  There was only one other house on the island, and it was built on the other side of the lighthouse tower.  The house belonged to Mr. Millar, who shared the care of the lighthouse with my grandfather.  Just outside the two houses was a court, with a pump in the middle, from which we got our water.  There was a high wall all round this court, to make a little shelter for us from the stormy wind.

Beyond this court were two gardens, divided by an iron railing.  The Millars’ garden was very untidy and forlorn, and filled with nettles, and thistles, and groundsel, and all kinds of weeds, for Mr. Millar did not care for gardening, and Mrs. Millar had six little children, and had no time to look after it.

But our garden was the admiration of every one who visited the island.  My grandfather and I were at work in it every fine day, and took a pride in keeping it as neat as possible.  Although it was so near the sea, our garden produced most beautiful vegetables and fruit, and the borders were filled with flowers, cabbage-roses, and pansies, and wall-flowers, and many other hardy plants which were not afraid of the sea air.

Outside the garden was a good-sized field—­full of small hillocks, over which the wild rabbits and hares, with which the island abounded, were continually scampering.  In this field were kept a cow and two goats, to supply the two families with milk and butter.  Beyond it was the rocky shore, and a little pier built out into the sea.

[Illustration:  The landing Stage]

On this pier I used to stand every Monday morning, to watch for the steamer which called at the island once a week.  It was a great event to us when the steamer came.  My grandfather and I, and Mr. and Mrs. Millar and the children, all came down to the shore to welcome it.  This steamer brought our provisions for the week, from a town some miles off, and often brought a letter for Mr. Millar, or a newspaper for my grandfather.

My grandfather did not get many letters, for there were not many people that he knew.  He had lived on that lonely island the greater part of his life, and had been quite shut out from the world.  All his relations were dead now, except my father, and what had become of him we did not know.  I had never seen him, for he went away some time before I was born.

My father was a sailor, a fine, tall, strong young fellow, my grandfather used to say.  He had brought my mother to the island, and left her in my grandfather’s care whilst he went on a voyage to Australia.  He went from the island in that same little steamer which called every Monday morning.  My grandfather stood on the end of the pier as the steamer went out of sight, and my mother waved her handkerchief to him as long as any smoke was seen on the horizon.  Grandfather has often told me how young and pretty she looked that summer morning.  My father had promised to write soon, but no letter ever came.  Mother went down to the pier every Monday morning for three long years, to see if it had brought her any word from her sailor husband.