We had become somewhat accustomed to the storms, and, though this one was terrific, and also followed by no interval of sunshine to break us in for the wet weather, yet our condition was so greatly ameliorated, we thought but little of it. Our house was waterproof even when the rain came down like the sea itself pouring over us. The wind was furious, but the nook we had selected was most sheltered, and, but for the uproar it made among the trees, we should have hardly known the real extent of the hurricane. Sometimes the thunder cracking over our heads awoke us in the night, and we congregated together for companionship and comfort. In the day-time we were very busy; I was inventing a spinning wheel; Schillie and the girls concocting chessmen; the boys knocking up shelves, seats, and boxes; the maids labouring through a perfect haycock of rent clothes and damaged stockings; somebody always singing, and sometimes that somebody was everybody. In the evening, Madame played, and everybody danced for an hour by the light of one candle; when breathless and tired, stories were told, each taking it in turn. A quick and pleasant three weeks passed, for which we daily thanked the Giver of all good.

When the sun shone once more our occupations were innumerable, leaving us no leisure from early morn, until the darkness came. What with gardening, lessons, manufacturing food and clothes, we had our hands full. It was astonishing to see how active the young ones were in turning everything to use; how quick and clever they became in all sorts of ways that belonged more to older heads. It is true there were some symptoms of fine ladyism that grumbled at washing clothes, grinding sand, and cleaning up dirty dishes; the latter was carried to so great a height that ZoË and Lilly came to me with a flat refusal to wash the breakfast plates. "Why?" said I. "Because they are so dirty," said they. "Very well," said I, "you need not do it." But they never objected again to any work, for their dirty plates were put before them, without any remark, each day, until they washed them of their own accord; and the elder girls let slip no opportunity of commenting upon fine ladies, who expressed great anxiety to help others, but must have the plates cleaned before they could wash or wipe them, and supposed they must have people to sweep the way before them, others to hand their food to their mouths. In fact, the irony ran so high, and was felt so sorely, that a private petition was sent in to have it stopped. This I was most glad to do, for our meals had been rendered a little unpleasant by mortified tears bedewing the face of the gentle ZoË, while indignant sobs and haughty looks betokened the harassed feelings of the high-spirited Lilly.

As may be supposed, we had many conversations regarding our future fate, and the probability of passing our days in this island.

Mother.—"It is the idea which always makes me so anxious, Schillie, to retain every possible memorial of our civilized life. Should our children and their descendants remain on this island, they will live to thank the Mother who worries you so with all the spinning, weaving, and other inventions that tease you."

Schillie.—"So you expect the children to marry, do you? Well, there will be plenty of old maids left to keep up the civilized art of scandal, seeing there are but two husbands for these six girls."

Felix.—"Don't call me a husband, cousin Schillie, for I don't intend to marry."

Oscar.—"I don't mind marrying Gatty, because she will go out shooting with me."

Schillie.—"And what has set you against matrimony, you imp of mischief?"

Felix.—"Why I don't like being called grandfather, and so I won't marry and have grandchildren."

This unfortunate announcement drew upon him the fate he wished to avoid, and, spite of his indignation, and tears, "grandfather" became his sobriquet until they were tired of the joke.

But we renewed our conversation, and, though I used my best arguments, and had Madame on my side, and though the battle waxed hot and loud, and was oft renewed between us, I never could get Schillie to allow that it was of the slightest use our thus exerting ourselves. This surprised me a good deal, for she had so much plain good sense, and was so naturally clever, and gifted with such brains for invention and concoction, that I expected to find her the champion of my plans, instead of the damper she proved. The hot and relaxing climate might have had some effect on her constitution, or the good hope she always carried about with her that we were not to remain here for ever, might make her reluctant to take trouble for nothing.

But it proved always in the end, the more busy and interested we were in our occupations the quicker time went, and less of it was spent in those vain regrets and idle wishes that left wounds on the heart which nothing could heal.

In justice, I must say, when fairly roused, none worked so hard or so well and the little workpeople had to look sharply about them when she was in superintendence.

She was in a cross mood one day, when she discovered me writing.

Schillie.—"What can you be doing, June?"

Mother (hesitating a little).—"I am writing a journal."

Schillie.—"Now, pray, tell me for what purpose."

Mother.—"It will be interesting to us to recur to some day; or it will serve to enlighten our own descendants, should we never leave this place."

Schillie.—"Well, I could not think you would be so absurd. Who wants to recall this horrible time; or what possible interest can you put into the details of such a life as ours."

Mother.—"I grant it's very difficult, but you are at liberty to look at it."

Schillie (reading).—"Ha! a thunderstorm (very interesting). Another (truly pathetic). Felix ill (the dear pet, how sorry his grandchildren will be to hear it). Gatty in mischief (when is she ever out of it?) Schillie worked the most of all (and what has she got to do besides?) Very merry tea (what a fib, when we have had no tea this month). Sybil so amiable (yes, quite mawkishly so). Our dear captain (good me! what a monody). The good Smart (perfect epitaphs over them all, pity they are not in rhyme). Well, June, of all the nonsense I ever read your journal seems the crown thereof."

Mother.—"I don't pretend to write anything amusing, for how can I with so few incidents; only I wished to keep a sort of journal."

Schillie.—"It seems to me nothing but about the children, how they were naughty and how they got good again. Why don't you write the geological structure of the island, the botanical history, and a whole account of the birds and beasts."

Mother.—"That I leave for your abler head and pen."

Schillie.—"Then it will never be done. I hate the place so much, I would not record a single thing about it."

Mother.—"If that is the case, leave my poor journal alone. I grant it is everything you say, dull, stupid, and monotonous, nevertheless, I have a fancy to keep it."

Schillie.—"Then, pray, indulge your fancy, and, in addition to keeping your journal, keep it locked up, for it is quite enough to endure all the children's twaddle, without writing it down."

My spinning-wheel answered remarkably well; but all my spinning was of little avail, as we had no idea of weaving. Schillie promised if she was not bothered by having to build more houses, she would try her hand at inventing a weaving machine the next rainy season. Luckily my yarn or thread was as coarse as needs be, and answered very well for crocheting and knitting. In both these arts we became wonderfully skilful; sewed crochet boots and shoes, while others knitted petticoats and jackets, so that we were in no particular fear that when our present clothes failed we should become a tribe of white savages. The children grew like the vegetation, and Gatty stalked over the ground like a young Patagonian. We had no lack of food, though we had neither beef or mutton, but poultry, birds, fish, eggs, and turtle, with innumerable vegetables and fruits, were surely enough for our simple party. In the midst of our many avocations, sighs and tears would arise for those we loved; neither could the the affection we bore each other, and the peaceful, useful, and happy lives we led, obliterate from our minds all we had lost. It was no uncommon thing, especially on Sunday, for us to collect round a favourite tree, and talk of and picture to ourselves what was passing at each home. In remembering the simple stedfast faith of my Father, the hopeful, sweet, loving nature of my Mother, I could not but think that through their virtues we might hope for a restoration to home. As the sins of the parents are visited on the children, so are their virtues means of showering blessings to the third and fourth generation. Was it possible that we were to be finally severed from the world for ever? all the comforts of civilized life fresh in our minds and thoughts. And here I sometimes paused, thinking to myself should we be restored in a few years, in what sort of state and condition should I deliver up each of my precious charges to their parents. I could not disguise from myself that their present mode of life was not suited for the highly-bred and polished youth of the nineteenth century. Madame, I must say, whatever employment they were about, from cutting down a tree to washing and peeling potatoes, never failed to inculcate a ladylike way of doing either employment, and spared no pains to make them as accomplished and graceful as our limited means afforded her.

Sybil was naturally so feminine and elegant that no rough work could spoil her. Serena had a bounding springing freedom of action that befitted a graceful young savage, and was too healthful and pretty to make any act one not suiting to her; while that dear young leviathan, Gatty, could have been graceful nowhere, though beaming with health and strength; how she did grow, and how she found out she was stronger than the little Mother, and how she teased her in consequence, enticing her upon little shelves of rock, under pretence of having discovered a new plant, and then keeping her there, though I might be calling for my lost companion until I was hoarse. Mischievous Gatty, and yet good and loving as she was mischievous. Serena managed her admirably, and could make her do whatever she liked; and it was pretty to see the sylph-like girl holding the great strong powerful Gatty in awe, lecturing her in a gentle, grave, simple way, with a sweet low voice, that murmured like a stream. Sybil might talk of duty, and "you ought" and "you ought not," until her fair face was flushed with talking, but she either found herself showered over with insects, or laid gently on the greensward, or swung up into a branch of a tree, from which she feared to jump down. No mercy had Gatty upon the gentle soft Sybil. The only one among the children who did not seem happy was Oscar. He had no boy of his own age to associate with in boyish pastimes; he was brought prematurely forward, from being the eldest male of our company; he had been passionately attached to his home, and he could bear no allusion to it, or the probability of not seeing it again, without being seriously unhappy for the day. Fond as they were of each other, his brother was too young to enter into the feelings that were unnaturally old, because forced on him.

If Schillie and Gatty devoted themselves to him for a day, he seemed more happy, but he loved to mope about by himself with his gun; and while he grew tall and strong, his face was pale, and his brow thoughtful beyond his years. Many were my anxious thoughts about him, and I lamented a thousand times having suffered Smart to leave, for he would at all events have been some sort of companion to him. Of all our party, he certainly was the only one who invariably remained grave and quiet, whatever might be the pleasantries in which we indulged.

Madame talked for an hour upon the dreadful fact of having no new music for the girls, and used the same phrases and words concerning there being no shop to buy a new cap as she did to the anxieties we had endured and the fears that others must be enduring for us.

Her horror at having no chemist near to make up her tonic mixture equalled the horror she felt at what had become of our companions, or seeing the girls do anything inconsistent to her notions as befitting young ladies caused her as dreadful a shock as the thunder. She was afflicted with fits of dying perpetually, which we remedied the best way we could, generally finding out that a long confidential talk about her sorrows, making her will, and confiding her last wishes to us, restored her as soon as any other recipe. But she was so good, and so fond of the children, that Madame had but to speak to have us all her messengers; even Schillie succumbed to her when the dying fit came on, matter of fact as she was, and scolding me as she did for giving in to it. I had exhausted all my efforts at consolation in one fit, and sent in Schillie to take my place.

"Well, Madame," began Schillie, in a great, stout, hearty, anti-invalidish voice, "better, of course, you are, I see."

Madame (in a faint whisper).—"Ah, my dear Madam, my dear kind friend, I may say now I am going to leave you."

The great Voice.—"I am proud to be your friend always, Madame, but it's all nonsense talking of leaving us. Why you look as well and rosy——"

Madame (a little hysterical).—"Fever, dear Mrs. E., all fever; my poor frame cannot support this long."

The Voice.—"Fever, is it? Let me count your pulse. Very good pulse, rather weak I should say. Take a glass of port wine and you will be all right."

Madame.—"Dear friend, your robust frame knows not what it is to suffer. Ah, the agonies I endure, the insupportable suffering!"

Schillie (a little softer).—"Rheumatism, I dare say; I have it sometimes in my knees, and it is very aggravating."

Madame.—"Alas, alas, would that it were; but I must not lose my precious moments, I must try to speak while I am able."

Schillie.—"Don't hurry, don't hurry, dear Madame. I have nothing to do at present, I can wait as long as you like."

Madame.—"Dear Mrs. E., thanks, but it is I, it is my time that is so short."

Schillie.—"Oh, come, come, that's all nonsense. I see no symptoms of dying about you. Indeed you look better than I have seen you for ages."

Madame.—"It's all deception. My time has come, dear friend, and to you I wish to confide my last wishes."

Schillie.—"But I never can keep a secret. Don't confide anything to me."

Madame.—"They are not secrets. I only wish to confide my beloved little ones to your care after I am gone."

Schillie.—"But I hate children, Madame. June will take care of them."

Madame.—"Ah, I know she will; but she is so fond, so tender a Mother, she sees no faults in them. There is my darling Sybil, she is certainly, if a human being can be, faultless."

Schillie.—"She is a very good soul in her way, Madame, but shockingly untidy."

Madame.—"But her lovely smile, her sweet engaging manners. My Serena is something like her, but, being so much with Gertrude, she is a little less ladylike in manners than I could wish. Could you, dear Mrs. E., just hint to her when I am gone——"

Schillie.—"Oh, good lack! no, Madame, I can hint nothing. I'll tell her you thought her unladylike if you wish; but I think both she and Gatty are first-rate Girls. They are afraid of nothing, and your pattern, Sybil, jumps at a spider."

Madame.—"Dear angel! I must go on. My lovely ZoË will certainly have a poke if she is not watched."

Schillie.—"I'll poke her up always, Madame, I promise you, for your sake."

Madame.—"Thank you, thank you, and my pretty Winifred. Have you not observed how she turns in her right foot?"

Schillie.—"No indeed, Madame, I never observed either right or left foot, but I'll look out, if I remember, for the future."

Madame.—"Thanks, dear friend, I think that is all about my darlings, save Lilly's eyes."

Schillie.—"They are very good eyes, Madame, and neither poke or turn in, which would be a squint I suppose."

Madame.—"They are lovely eyes, of heaven's own blue, but she ruins them by reading no much."

Schillie.—"Well, I'll stop her reading. Anything more Madame?"

Madame.—"Yes, I should like to be buried under trees near our church."

Schillie.—"Very well, I can safely promise that, as I suppose I shall help to dig your grave myself."

Madame then wound up in such a pathetic manner that Schillie was obliged to have recourse to her pocket handkerchief, and came blubbering out of the room, muttering that though she believed she was only an old humbug she would be very sorry if the old lady really died.

She was only just recovering this fit one very sultry day when we carried her to the edge of the cliff to catch a breath of air if she could. It was so extremely hot we could do nothing, and therefore lay beside her, instead of leaving a little girl in attendance as usual. We fancied something must be about to occur, for every breath seemed as if drawing in hot air. I, with what Schillie called my usual fidgetiness, was imagining horror upon horrors, when, suddenly looking at the sea, we beheld it rise and fall as if one tremendous wave passed over it. Almost immediately the whole island seemed to tremble under our feet, a rumbling and at the same time crashing sound quite surrounded us. "An earthquake," cried some, while all sprang to their feet. A breathless silence ensued, but all nature seemed as if nothing had occurred. "The house," said Schillie. "The boys!" I exclaimed. We flew down headlong towards the rocks from which they usually fished. Not a trace of them or the rocks, the sea was boiling beyond what we had never seen covered before. I sat stupidly down on the sands, as if waiting for the waves to cast my sons up at my feet.

"They may not have been fishing," said Schillie. I did not heed her until the sharp cry of a child in pain struck on my ear. We rushed towards the place, and found Oscar supporting his brother, who was screaming violently. They were alive; all other things seemed to me as nothing. As I took him in my arms, Oscar told me that, finding the fish would not bite, and feeling excessively tired, they had agreed to go to a shady ledge on the rocks, and sleep for an hour. He was awakened by a strange noise, as well as being thrown rather violently from the place where he lay; opening his eyes, he beheld Felix some feet below him, lying apparently dead. He ran and picked him up, and throwing some water on his face from the brook near which they had lain down, in the course of some minutes he opened his eyes and knew his brother, but on moving he shrieked with pain. Oscar wrung his hands, and cried as he said, "Oh, Mother, Mother, what is the matter, will he die? Who has hurt him? What has happened? Oh my brother, my brother, I should die for my Felix." The sight of Oscar's distress caused a cessation in Felix's screams. He put out one little hand, and said, "Don't cry, Otty, I'll bear it, only don't cry so." "Bear what, my darling," said I, "where are you hurt?" "I am hurted all about, Mama; but is it a snake that has eaten me, or who killed me? I'll be a man, dear Otty. I'll not scream any more, if you will only not cry so, because I shall cry, I know I shall, I must cry just a little, but it is not the pain." As he tried thus to comfort his brother, the colour fled from his cheeks, his eyes closed, the rosy lips paled, he fell back in my arms motionless. I thought he was dead, but he was in my arms, the wild waves had him not for their prey; could it be possible that I felt comforted as I clasped him closer? Wine was brought, water poured on his face; and, as we laid him on the sward, his right arm fell in an unnatural position. It was broken. Stripping off his clothes, and carefully examining, we found him bruised in various places, but no other bones injured save the collar bone. Schillie set both arm and collar bone. We bandaged them as well as we could, and then carefully carrying him to the old tent place, we did our best to restore him to consciousness. In this we succeeded; and, though for many days he lay in a dangerous fever, once that was subdued he grew well astonishingly fast. The arm reunited perfectly, but the collar bone retains a lump on it to this day.

The first symptom he gave us of returning health and strength was in a conversation he had with his beloved Jenny, who was so occupied in nursing him her attentions to us were of the most scanty kind. Imagine a little figure, clothed in a little white gown, his arm and shoulder bandaged up, lying on a lot of cushions. The smallest little white face peeped out from a mass of hair, and a little brown monkey, with a face about the same size, watches the different clouds of restlessness or pleasure that passed over the little white face with a curious mixture of wonder and curiosity. Jenny appears with a dish and exposes it to view. The little invalid, with a lordly air, surveys his dinner.

Felix.—"A nasty chicken again, Jenny."

Jenny.—"Oh, Sir, I have roasted it to a turn, and here is egg sauce."

Felix.—"Then give me the egg sauce, and you may have the chicken. I wish chickens were never invented."

Jenny.—"Would you like a duck, Sir?"

Felix.—"No, duck is nastier. I want a mutton chop, Jenny."

Jenny.—"But I have not got one, Sir."

Felix.—"Then a beefsteak."

Jenny.—"Indeed, I wish I could get one for you, Sir."

Felix.—"Well, I don't mind, just for once, eating some boiled leg of mutton."

Jenny.—"Oh, my darling, then you must want mutton very bad, and you know there is not such a thing on the island."

Felix.—"Then it's a bad place, and I wish we were away, having nothing but chickens and chickens, ducks and ducks, until we shall all crow and quack."

Jenny.—"Oh, don't, Sir, don't go for to move, and get in such a passion, you'll displace the bones, and make your Mama so unhappy."

Felix.—"I am sure nobody is so unhappy as me; and as for your chicken, there——"

And with a kick of the little impudent foot away went the chicken out of its dish into Jenny's face, who forgave her darling on the spot; nay, even came to us for congratulations on his recovery. "For," says she, "he is as impudent as ever he was when well, and is that not a good sign, Ma'am."

Schillie.—"Wash the remains of the chicken off your face, Jenny, and then I'll tell you my opinion."