"It is not so lonely as the sea."
"No, it is not so lonely as the sea. The sea is dreadful, and oh, so-o-o cold when you are dying in it slowly, an inch at a time," and she shivered again at the recollection.
"You must try to forget all about it."
"I shall never forget it. That is not possible. The memory of it is frozen into my soul. What noise is that?" she asked, listening intently with her hand uplifted.
"It's a great cloud of sea-birds that haunts the island. All the wrecks come ashore at that end, and they live there most of the time."
"It is like the wailing of lost souls."
"Right, miss!" broke in Macro. "That's what it is. They're only birds, mebbe, but there's the souls of the dead inside 'em, an' sometimes they're fair deevils when they come screaming round in a storm."
"I could believe that,—the souls of the dead without a doubt."
"Suppose we turn to something pleasanter," suggested Wulfrey. "Perhaps you will choose out the things you think most suitable from all that the mate brought over from the wrecks?"
"From the wrecks?" ... and she glanced at him doubtfully with a little shiver. "It does not sound too nice."