"Oh dear no, Tom; they would not drink the sea-water—it is much too salt. I expect they stay on the island all the summer and come home in winter. I know their masters go and look after them at low tide."
"Well, is it low tide now?" persisted Tom.
Mrs. Beauchamp peered into the dusk.
"No; it is nearly high, I think. There is very little of the rocks to be seen."
"Well, there is something scrambling about on the island, quite low down, and it looks just like goats."
"Sea-birds, Tom?"
"They don't scramble," said Tom.
"Well, fishermen perhaps. Show me where you see them."
But the black dots had disappeared. The fine drizzling rain had come on again, and the island was misty; heavy clouds were banked on the horizon, and it had grown suddenly cold and dark.
"Come inside, Tom," said Mrs. Beauchamp; "hold on to the rail and don't tumble off. Isn't it pleasant to think of the warm, cosy nursery and supper?"