ISLA stood on the shore, with Jacob’s hand in hers, and watched the schooner which bore away her new friend. She had seen the preacher several times since that first interview, and they had talked much together. She held now in her hand a precious gift, a letter to the head of the Deaf and Dumb School, which, the preacher felt sure, would insure Jacob’s admission. This kind woman had made a little map of the streets, so that Isla might find her way without trouble through the crowded city. She had offered, if Isla could only wait, to be her guide, and take upon herself the task of presenting Jacob; but Isla could not wait. She gave as her reason that the child was already older than most of the beginners, from what the preacher told her; moreover, that now was the time when the schools would soon be opening. Other reasons there were which she did not give, but the preacher accepted these, and gave her the note readily. Now the schooner was out of sight, round the far point of the island, and Isla was her own mistress. As Jacob danced and swung about, holding fast to her loving hand, the girl was thinking hard. Her thoughts flew forward to that strange, dreadful place, the city. Already she felt the stifling air, and saw the walls close around her. It would take months, years, the preacher said, before Jacob would learn to speak. If she could only live so long! She had only half listened when the preacher told her of all the pleasant things she would see and hear. She knew better than that. Herons could not live in cities; Herons like her and Giles. Jacob was so young, he would not know so well, perhaps, and would soon forget—forget! The word went through the girl like a sharp pain. Under all lay the dread, not spoken even to herself, shut out instantly when it forced itself to her mind,—that she might not be allowed to stay with her brother at the school. If all went as she had planned there would be no danger, none at all. They would never know. Silence had become the rule of her life. But there might be some mistake; some emergency might arise that would force her to speak.

Then, if she were sent away from him, would Jacob forget? She grasped the child’s hand so hard that he winced, and held up his face with a little moan of pain. She bent down and took him in her arms, soothing him so gently that he forgot the moment’s grief, and laughed again. Isla smiled, the rare smile that made her whole face bright with inward light; but she did not laugh. There was no one to hear her laugh, since Giles died.

That afternoon she told Jacob that she must leave him for some hours. He was to be happy, oh, so happy! for he might play on the stretch of white sand where the gold-shells were, taking care not to go below the rope of seaweed that marked their high-tide boundary. He was so careful, she knew she might trust him. And she would bring him an orange from the village, if there was one; sometimes the captain brought a few over from the main, on his weekly trip with the mail-schooner. At least she would bring him something, surely, something good or pretty; and he was to play his best plays, and think of her, and the time would go quickly, quickly, till she came back.

Jacob nodded and laughed, well content. He would never have Isla out of his sight, if that might be; but he knew that these times must come, and he was a patient child, and knew not the sense of being unhappy or forlorn. Taking his clam-shell spade and his pails of birch-bark, he trotted down to the strip of white shell-sand, and there built houses, and rocks, and lighthouses, such as Isla had showed him. He had seen the houses himself, but the tall tower he took on faith; there was no tower in those days on the Wild Rocks. Tiring of his building, he gathered a great heap of gold-shells, and watched the afternoon sunbeams play on their delicate scales and turn them to ruddy gold, where at first they were pale. Then he found a rock-pool, full of brown shrimps; he lay on his stomach, and watched them scuttling in and out of the rockweed fringe. Presently an unwary barnacle opened his shell and put out his plume of feathers. Whisk! he was seized by a crab, torn from his home, enveloped, swept away into the dark caverns. Poor barnacle! Jacob shook his head in compassion; yet, having large sympathies, was glad, too, that the crab had such a good supper.

A little chill struck him. The sand turned from brilliant to dead white, and, turning, he saw that the sun had gone down behind the crest of the sister island across the bay. It was time for Isla to come! The red glow had faded from the gold-shells, too, and they looked pale and cold. Cold! and they must stay out here all night, and then it would be very cold indeed! Isla would make him a little fire, and cook his supper, and they would be warm and comfortable at home, but the poor things on the beach would be cold.

And now a bright thought came to Jacob; a thought that made him clap his hands, and make little sounds of pleasure, such as a bird or a young lamb might make.

Why should not he build a fire? Not in the house, but here, on the shore? Isla would see it on her way back, and it would light up the rocks and make them bright and cheerful, and she would know that he was watching and waiting for her. And then it would last all night, perhaps, and the poor shells and things would be warm for once. It would be fine, fine! He cooed with joy. Isla should see how clever he was, how well he could do things to help! He ran here and there, picking up bits of driftwood, twigs and sticks and shingles. The light faded, but Jacob’s face made a little brightness of its own. Soon he had quite a pile collected; then he ran to the house for matches, and soon the fire was leaping and crackling merrily. The warmth and glow were heartening! The happy child bent above it, and spread out his hands, and murmured pure pleasure. How soon would Isla come? Surely she had never stayed so long before.

The tide was rising, and now murmured higher and higher on the stones; but Jacob had no fear of the tide. The rope of seaweed was his boundary, and that lay always dry, and he and his pretty fire were well above it. The fire was very friendly, he thought. It was dancing for him, making all sorts of pretty plays for him. He danced, too, to show that he appreciated the courtesy; but, on the whole he liked best to sit close beside it, with his palms spread to catch all the kindly warmth.

Sitting so, his mind full of happy thoughts, sleep came softly to him. It was past his bedtime, or perhaps it was only the heat, so close at hand, that brought the drowsiness. He tried to brush it away, but it came back. The evening grew dim, and only the fire glowed bright and cheerful. Presently the curly head sank down on the warm seaweed; there was a little sigh or two, of sheer comfort and content, and Jacob was asleep.

The tide still rose quietly, and murmured softly on the stones. A beach bird ran by, and did not fear to brush the child with its wing, he was so still, and looked so gentle. A sea-gull came wheeling in over the beach; hovered a moment on broad wings, then vanished, a white ghost in the deepening gray. The fire smouldered, the brands fell away into soft, gray heaps with a red coal at the centre; and still the child slept, though now the air grew thin and cold, and a fog began to creep in from the sea.

Now was it a thing of his dreams, or was there a flutter of broader wings over the lonely shore? Were they real, the two figures that stood dimly lovely in the waning light?

Surely they were speaking—

“See! he is sleeping, how soundly! He should be mine, not yours. He hears now; he speaks now; and I will but loose him from the little dumb thing that was the prison of him, and he shall hear and speak always, forevermore. If I lay my hand on him, it will be only a touch, and not so cold, only a soft coolness; and then! oh, the waking for him! Why would you keep him from me? for it is to me that the word should come.”

And the other, the flame-winged spirit, could not answer; could only keep her own warm hand on the child’s heart, and breathe on him with her warm breath, and wait and listen in anguish, lest the word should indeed come to her brother and not to her.

And if the word should come a moment late, and she had lost the faint flutter of the little heart?

But how strange for the angel not to know, that there is no “too late!”

Hark! what sound is that?

A moment ago,—unless those shadowy forms were real indeed,—there was only silence and the falling night, and the child asleep on the shingle. But now, though no voice is heard—for who should cry aloud to the deaf child?—yet the air is full of sound; it palpitates with motion. The light shock of pebbles falling beneath hurrying feet, the patter of those feet, hardly touching the sand as they flit past; then round the point a figure flying, swift and silent, with outstretched arms and hair streaming loose. Isla! Isla is coming!

Go thy way, good brother Death! not yet the child needs thee; not yet is he to take thy kind, cold hand and go with thee. And thou, flame-winged spirit, fold him yet closer in thy warm arms, for the night falls chill.

Isla dropped on the beach and clasped the boy to her heart. The little limbs were cold, but the breath came warm on her cheek, as she pressed him close, and kissed and patted him. She dropped the orange beside him. It was this that had made her late; going for it on board a vessel where she heard the fruit might be had, and detained by the churlish skipper, till night began to fall, while she was still at the further end of the island. Would the child wake to see it?

Jacob opened his eyes, slowly, unwillingly, thinking the morning was come too soon; and found night instead of the sun, but he felt his Isla’s arms about him, and her warm face pressed to his, and knew that his joy was come back to him. He nestled in the strong, tender arms, and laughed, now wide-awake, and pointed to the fire, telling, with eloquent gestures, what he had done. There was no doubt that his fire had brought her back; happy Jacob! And Isla, kneeling on the sand, holding him in her arms, promised to herself that never again in this world would she and Jacob part. Alas for thee, Isla! Not for us are the promises.