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 following, and moved after the sound, not without reluctance.  “It may be only a vision,” he said gravely.  “Remember the hounds that ran after Caliban and the others?”