“What, then, became of the pistols and the French horn?” inquired Jack.

“From that time on there sprung up a close friendship between the two; he was induced by her to convert his weapons of war into pharmacopoeas.  Always, when she made some nice compound of jelly and cream, he had a share of it; he, on his side, scarcely ever passed her door without softening his tread; and both himself and his dog managed, eventually, to acquire the favor of the old lady’s pug.”

“He appears to have been one of those medical gentlemen WHO profess to cure every conceivable disease by one kind of medicine.”

“And who generally contrive to remove both the disease and the patient at the same time.”

“You mistake the individual altogether; he is now one of the most esteemed physicians in London, remarkable alike for his skill and benevolence.  It is even strongly suspected by his friends that he is not a little indebted for his present eminent position to his first patients—­the canary and the gold-fish.”

It was now the usual hour for retiring to rest.  After the evening prayer, which Mary and Sophia said alternately aloud, Willis and the four brothers prepared to start for Shark’s Island, to pass their first night in the store-room and cattle-shed that had been erected there.  Of course they could not expect to be so comfortable in such quarters as at Rockhouse or Falcon’s Nest; but then novelty is to young people what ease is to the aged.  Black bread appears delicious to those who habitually eat white; and we ourselves have seen high-bred ladies delighted when they found themselves compelled to dine in a wretched hovel of the Tyrol—­true, they were certain of a luxurious supper at Inspruck.  So grief breaks the monotony of joy, just as a rock gives repose to level plain.

Whilst the pinnace was gradually leaving the shore, loaded with mattresses and other movables adapted for a temporary encampment, Jack signalled a parting adieu to Sophia, and, putting his fingers to his lips, seemed to enjoin silence.

“All right, Master Jack,” cried she.

“What is all this signalling about?” inquired Mrs. Wolston.

“A secret,” said the young girl, leaping with joy; “I have a secret!”

“And with a young man? that is very naughty, miss.”

“Oh, mamma, you will know it to-morrow.”

“What if I wanted to know it to-night?”

“Then, mamma, if you insisted—­that is—­absolutely—­”

“No, no, child, I shall wait till to-morrow; keep it till then—­if you can.”

“Sophia dear,” said Mary to her sister, when their two heads, enveloped in snowy caps with an embroidered fringe, were reclining together on the same pillow, “you know I have always shared my bon-bons with you.”

“Yes, sister.”

“In that case, make me a partner in your secret.”

“Will you promise not to speak of it?”