he drifted, and reckoned the drift. But it's funny the island was never charted—almost spooky, an old wives' tale."
Then, seeing an expression of concern, almost of alarm, flit across her face, he hastened to add,—
"It's somewhere in these parts, of course. I was thinking of the yarns about it,—floating and haunted, and all that. Then, too, the fact that it's not populated, when every little chip of an islet in these seas is swarming with blacks.
"I've never clapped eyes on it," he continued, after making sure of the light in his brier, "but it was owned once, so the yarn goes, by a French family, some grabbag lot of dooks or markeys or discounts—they lived there a long time. But a whole flock of misfortunes landed on 'em,—fever, murder, plague, earthquake, pirates, and such, that they gave it up as a bad job. Left it to the squatters and beachcombers, and the coffee-coloured wretches that make some sort of a living from the sea. The last big earthquake or visitation of spooks or voodoos drove them off—that is, if you're to believe the tale—and, well, there you are. But that old rascal, Mr. They Say, tells us it's a little chunk of Heaven let down on the water to show folks what the good place looks like. But I guess the Devil got in his licks since—There, there, I've told you all I've heard about it" Sally smiled, for he seemed, for some reason, to be getting confused—"So take it for what it's worth—which means it's all a lot of nonsense and a pack of infernal lies," he finished lamely.
"No, no, Señor, no lie, eet is like that, for I have seen eet. This foot she have step on it."
They hadn't heard the pad of shoeless feet on the quarter-
