“My name is Mander,” said the other, “and about two years ago I was on my way from England to Barbadoes, where, with my wife and two girls, I expected to settle.  We were captured by a pirate ship and marooned upon this island.  I will say, to the pirate captain’s credit, that he was a good sort of man considering his profession.  He sailed across the bay on purpose to find a suitable place to land us, and he left with us some necessary articles, such as axes and tools, kitchen utensils, and a gun with some ammunition.  Then he sailed away, leaving us here, and here we have since lived.  Under the circumstances, we have no right to complain, for had we been taken by an ordinary pirate it is likely that our bones would now be lying at the bottom of the ocean.

“Here I have worked hard and have made myself a home, such as it is.  There are wild cattle upon the distant savannas, and I trap game and birds, cultivate the soil to a certain extent, and if we had clothes I might say we would be in better circumstances than many a respectable family in England.  Sometimes when a merchantman anchors here and I have hides or anything else which we can barter for things we need, I row over the bay in a canoe which I have made, and have thus very much bettered our condition.  But in no case have I been able to provide my family with suitable clothes.”

“Why did you not get some of these merchant ships to carry you away?” asked Dickory.

The man shook his head.  “There is no place,” he said sadly, “to which I can in reason ask a ship to carry me and my family.  We have no money, no property whatever.  In any other place I would be far poorer than I am here.  My children are not uneducated; my wife and I have done our best for them in that respect, and we have some books with us.  So, as you see, it would be rash in me to leave a home which, rude as it is, shelters and supports my family, to go as paupers and strangers to some other land.”

The wife heaved a sigh.  “But poor Lucilla!” she said.  “It is dreadful that she should be forced to grow up here.”

“Lucilla?” asked Dickory.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “my eldest daughter.  But she is not here now.”

Dickory thought that it was somewhat odd that he should be again informed of a fact which he knew very well, but he made no remarks upon the subject.

Still wearing his cocked hat—­for he had nothing else with which to shield his head from the sun—­and with his uniform coat on, for he had not yet an opportunity of ripping from it the letter he carried, and this he would not part from—­Dickory roamed about the little settlement.  Mander was an industrious and thrifty man.  His garden, his buildings, and his surroundings showed that.

Walking past a clump of low bushes, Dickory was startled by a laugh—­a hearty laugh—­the laugh of a girl.  Looking quickly around, he saw, peering above the tops of the bushes, the face of the girl who had laughed.