For he could not row himself so far; distance and danger compelled him to consider the islands facing Tinnick—­two large islands covered with brushwood, ugly brown patches—­ugly as their names, Horse Island and Hog Island, whereas Castle Island had always seemed to him a suitable island for a hermitage, far more so than Castle Hag.  Castle Hag was too small and bleak to engage the attention of a sixth-century hermit.  But there were trees on Castle Island, and out of the ruins of the castle a comfortable sheiling could be built, and the ground thus freed from the ruins of the Welshman’s castle might be cultivated.  He remembered commandeering the fisherman’s boat, and rowing himself out, taking a tape to measure, and how, after much application of the tape, he had satisfied himself that there was enough arable land in the island for a garden; he had walked down the island certain that a quarter of an acre could grow enough vegetables to support a hermit, and that a goat would be able to pick a living among the bushes and the tussocked grass:  even a hermit might have a goat, and he didn’t think he could live without milk.  He must have been a long time measuring out his garden, for when he returned to his boat the appearance of the lake frightened him; it was full of blustering waves, and it wasn’t likely he’d ever forget his struggle to get the boat back to Tinnick.  He left it where he had found it, at the mouth of the river by the fisherman’s hut, and returned home thinking how he would have to import a little hay occasionally for the goat.  Nor would this be all; he would have to go on shore every Sunday to hear Mass, unless he built a chapel.  The hermit of Church Island had an oratory in which he said Mass!  But if he left his island every Sunday his hermitage would be a mockery.  For the moment he couldn’t see how he was to build a chapel—­a sheiling, perhaps; a chapel was out of the question, he feared.

He would have to have vestments and a chalice, and, immersed in the difficulty of obtaining these, he walked home, taking the path along the river from habit, not because he wished to consider afresh the problems of the ruined mills.  The dream of restoring Tinnick to its commerce of former days was forgotten, and he walked on, thinking of his chalice, until he heard somebody call him.  It was Eliza, and as they leaned over the parapet of the bridge, he could not keep himself from telling her that he had rowed out to Castle Island, never thinking that she would reprove him, and sternly, for taking the fisherman’s boat without asking leave.  It was no use to argue with Eliza that the fisherman didn’t want his boat, the day being too rough for fishing.  What did she know about fishing?  She had asked very sharply what brought him out to Castle Island on such a day.  There was no use saying he didn’t know; he never was able to keep a secret from Eliza, and feeling that he must confide in somebody, he told her he was tired of living at home, and was thinking of building a sheiling on the island.