lesson which, to do them justice, they never forgot again. But now we will talk of something pleasanter. We will go back to Lady Why, and listen to her voice. It sounds gentle and cheerful enough just now. Listen.

What is she speaking to us now?

Watch

Hush! Open your eyes and ears once more, for you are growing sleepy with my long sermon. the sleepy shining water, and the sleepy green mountains. Listen to the sleepy lapping of the ripple, and the sleepy sighing of the woods, and let Lady Why talk to you through them in "songs without words," because they are deeper than all words, till you, too, fall asleep with your head upon my knee. But what does she say?

She says "Be still. The fulness of joy is peace." There, you are fast asleep; and perhaps that is the best thing for you; for sleep will (so I am informed, though I never saw it happen, nor anyone else) put fresh grey matter into your brain; or save the wear and tear of the old grey matter; or something else-when they have settled what it is to do: and if so, you. will wake up with a fresh fiddle-string to your little fiddle of a brain, on which you are playing new tunes all day long. So much the better: but when I believe that your brain is you, pretty boy, then I shall believe also that the fiddler is his fiddle.

CHAPTER XII.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

COME

OME: I suppose you consider yourself quite a good sailor by now?

Oh yes.

I have never been ill yet, though it has

been quite rough again and again.

What you call rough, little man.

But as you are

grown such a very good sailor, and also as the sea is all but smooth, I think we will have a sail in the yacht to-day, and that a tolerably long one.

Oh, how delightful! But I thought we were going home; and the things are all packed up.

And why should we not go homewards in the yacht, things and all?

What, all the way to England?

No, not so far as that; but these kind people, when they came into the harbour last night, offered to take us up the coast to a town, where we will sleep, and start comfortably home to-morrow morning. So now you will have a chance of seeing something of

the great sea outside, and of seeing, perhaps, the whale himself.

I hope we shall see the whale. The men say he has been outside the harbour every day this week after the fish.

Very good. Now do you keep quiet, and out of the way, while we are getting ready to go on board; and take a last look at this pretty place, and all its dear kind people.

And the dear kind dogs too, and the cat and the kittens.

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Now, come along, and bundle into the boat, if you have done bidding every one good-bye; and take care you don't slip down in the ice-groovings, as you did the other day. There, we are off at last.

Oh, look at them all on the rock watching us and waving their handkerchiefs; and Harper and Paddy too, and little Jimsy and Isy, with their fat bare feet, and their arms round the dogs' necks. I am so sorry to leave them all.

Not sorry to go home?

No, but They have been so kind; and the dogs were so kind. I am sure they knew we were going, and were sorry too.

Perhaps they were. They knew we were going away, at all events. They know what bringing out boxes and luggage means well enough.

Sam knew, I am sure; but he did not care for us. He was only uneasy because he thought Harper was going, and he should lose his shooting; and as soon as he saw Harper was not getting into the boat, he sat down and scratched himself, quite happy. But do dogs think?

Of course they do, only they do not think in words, as we do.

But how can they think without words?

That is very difficult for you and me to imagine, because we always think in words. They must think in pictures, I suppose, by remembering things which have happened to them. You and I do that in our dreams. I suspect that savages, who have very few words to express their thoughts with, think in pictures, like their own dogs. But that is a long story. We must see about getting on board now, and under way.

Well, and what have you been doing?

Oh, I looked all over the yacht, at the ropes and curious things; and then I looked at the mountains, till I was tired; and then I heard you and a gentleman talking about the land sinking, and I listened. There was no harm in that?.

None at all. But what did you hear him say?

That the land must be sinking here, because

there were peat-bogs everywhere below high-water mark. Is that true?

Quite true; and that peat would never have been formed where the salt water could get at it, as it does tide.

now every

But what was it he said about that cliff over there?

He said that cliff on our right, a hundred feet high, was plainly once joined on to that low island on our left.

What! that long bank of stones, with a house on it?

That is no house.

That is a square lump of mud, the last iemaining bit of earth which was once the moraine of a glacier. Every year it crumbles into the sea more and more; and in a few years it will be all gone, and nothing left but the great round boulder-stones which the ice brought down from the glaciers behind us.

But how does he know that it was once joined to the cliff?

Because that cliff, and the down behind it, where the cows are fed, is made up, like the island, of nothing but loose earth and stones; and that is why it is bright and green, beside the grey rocks and brown heather of the moors at its foot. He knows that it must be an old glacier moraine; and he has reason to think that moraine once stretched right across the bay to the low island, and perhaps on to