Andrea’s house stood lonely and forlorn on the rocky island. It was a two-story house painted red, with big vacant windows, up-stairs and down.
“Andrea’s husband is a sailor, and I saw her and her son in town to-day with fish to sell,” said Louisa.
We went everywhere around the locked-up, forlorn house. In front was the open sea, gulls and other sea-birds flapped their wings over our heads, bare rocks and stones were everywhere.
“Really, it must be jolly to live here,—like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island,” said I. “To do everything for yourself, live on fish and go in a boat whenever you like.”
“Oh, no!” said Louisa. “No, I should be afraid to live here. Hush, keep still! Hear what a sighing comes from the sea.”
A green yacht was moored down in front of the house. There was no one on board and it lay dipping slowly up and down in the swell of the sea. On the stern was painted the name of the yacht in yellow letters on a black ground,—Seven Stars.
“Oh, let’s row out to the yacht and go on board and look it over,” said I. Louisa made no objection though she said stoutly:
“But you can say what you will, there are spirits here on the island in the afternoons.”
This was not particularly comfortable to hear just then, but I pretended not to notice it. Twenty or thirty strokes would take us to the Seven Stars,—not many more, at any rate.
It was difficult to climb on board, but Louisa, whose arms were very strong, pulled herself up first and drew me up after her.