mute violence on the beach, revealed her opinion of old Jean's accusation against her past propriety, never denied or admitted its truth. She went down inarticulate into darkness, her indomitable will undefeated, her arrogance unbroken, her authority snapped short abruptly at the hilt.

A respectful population followed while four black slaves carried her in her curtained palanquin up to the top of the hill and there buried her in the conspicuous grave demanded by her position, for Miss Smith of Smith Island was not to be given to the waste seas, like more ordinary corpses. She had a noble monument, a tall tree trunk set high on the hill's crest, and on it was carved:

"HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF MISS SMITH, Ruler of SMITH ISLAND (NOW ORPHAN ISLAND)"—this had been interpolated by the carver, uncommanded by his Smith employers "FOR SIXTY-EIGHT YEARS BORN SEPTEMBER IST, 1825. DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1923. ""THE PRICE OF A GOOD WOMAN IS ABOVE RUBIES." -Miss Smith."

(It had not been known on the island that this remark, one of Miss Smith's favourites, had not been originated by her but by Solomon, and when Mr. Thinkwell and Mr. Merton pointed it out, it was too late for alteration.)

Yes; the population, even the most revolutionary Orphans, were respectful enough to the Remains of Miss Smith. After all, she had always stood to them for destiny, for sovereignty, for the accepted order of things. And those who were unmoved by that felt that here was an old, old woman, who had been fuddled in her mind during her last years and not responsible

for her actions, which, after all, she had meant, perhaps, for the best.

And-who knew?-perhaps they had been for the best. Perhaps Miss Smith, however arbitrary in her methods, had been right in her decision. She had told her people that they would come to grief if they should leave the island, that the wider world held no place for them. Who knew, but that she had been right? Here, after all, they had a living; here was the land they knew, and, if its existing order should be changed and bettered, so that all had their fair share, it might be best to stay on it.

At any rate, destiny and Miss Smith had so decided. But old Jean, mazed in her wits by age and grief, did not attend the funeral. She wandered up and down, to and fro, about the shore, peering always out to sea, and muttering, "A ship tae Aberrdeen. A wee ship tae Aberrdeen. Hoo lang, oh Lord, hoo lang?"

CHAPTER XXV

THE END OF IT

I

THE island-Orphan Island now, by government proclamation-settled down. The newly-constituted parliament, under the thoughtful, just, and moderating guidance of Mr. Thinkwell, got to work on the emendation of the laws of the land and the readjustment of property. There were, after all, Smiths in the new Parliament, though not in a prominent position. At Mr. Thinkwell's suggestion, one of the first measures was the repeal of the bastardy laws, so that even the generation of Smiths who were under suspicion in this matter, were not ineligible for public position. But they were kept in their places. They formed in future the solid and stolid nucleus of that reactionary conservative party without which no parliament is complete. An eloquent minority, they sat on the opposition benches and voted consistently and ineffectively against the government. They had to listen to the passing of Acts by which their land was shorn to small plots close about their dwelling houses, their woods turned into common land, their game into the people's food. It was bitter; it was outrageous.

Outside parliament, they adopted the position of despoiled aristocrats. They might be robbed of land and power, but no one could rob them of caste. Class barriers in their eyes reared even more stiffly than before between them and the Lower Orders. Even

though they had, perforce, to live now much like these lower beings, they would never descend to their common level. Smiths were for ever Smith, Orphans for ever Orphan, and through all their fallen state the Smiths' social pride sustained them.

Their displeasure with Mr. Thinkwell, the interloping Premier who sanctioned and in part devised these changes was mitigated by the knowledge that, if he had not been there, they would have been far worse off than they were. For Mr. Thinkwell, to give him his due, was a fair man, a man who at least tried to be moderate and just.

That is to say, so far he has tried. But, since he has only been a politician for a year, it is to be feared that the deterioration almost inevitable in politicians may before long set in, and that his head may be turned and his eyes dazzled with power.

However that may be, he is interested in this new job. He finds it a good deal more interesting than his work at Cambridge. The government of this curious, this probably unique island, the development of its constitution and civilisation-here indeed is an absorbing problem for a man who has devoted his life to the study of sociology. Mr. Thinkwell is happy to be there, and desires no change. If a vessel should come now to the island, he might decline to depart in it; he would certainly advise the islanders in general to stay where they are. It was a mistake, he now sees, even more clearly than before, to plan their removal; the plan, he consoles himself by reflecting, was never his, but the memory of having at least played with it, still irks him. It is, of course, as an island republic that their development should proceed. Being a just man, he would never, should opportunity arise, play them the trick Miss Smith had played them, but he

might wish that his principles would allow of some such

ruse.

2

Captain Paul and Mr. Merton, both easy-going men with few home ties, settled down, after a time, cheerfully enough, to island life. They expected to be rescued before long; Captain Paul at first constantly scanned the horizon for a sail, but, as no sail appeared, he accepted its absence without much disappointment. Before the year was out, he had taken a handsome young woman to wife. Mr. Merton has married no one so far, but flirts with all the girls in turn, enjoys the various drinks very much, and has taught the island several more.

Charles, when he was well of his fever, at first moped and brooded a good deal, for, since Flora would not have him, and had, in fact, married another, he disliked the island and was very homesick. But, by degrees, he found his place. Hindley Smith-Rimski made friends with him, eager to learn all he could impart as to English literature. Charles had with him several books-two anthologies of modern verse, a Shelley, a book of critical essays, and another of short stories, besides many of his own poems in manuscript. These specimens of English literature were eagerly welcomed by young islanders, and, guided by Charles, a new school of island literature rose and developed. Charles was before long asked to accept the position of Professor of Literature, which he enjoyed. His own writings were acclaimed as he produced them (and many an old literary effort he was thus enabled to produce as new) with flattering admiration, and he came gradually to find as much pleasure in writing for this island public as for his public (nearly as small and much less