It was a clear starlight night, and the dark house on the summit of the ridge stood out in bold relief against the deep blue sky. "Hush—hark!" A piano was struck with some skill, and a female voice began the beautiful song set to the tune of the old Scottish melody "The Weary Fund o' Tow."
This was a startling incident, to occur thus at the world's end.
"Hey day!" said I; but before I could make any farther remark, a full rich male voice struck in at the chorus—
"He's far away, he's far away, but surely he will come;
Ye moments fly, pass swiftly by, and send my soldier home."
We remained riveted to the spot until the music ceased.
"I say, Tooraloo, Toby, my lad; you have not sculled us to fairy land, have you?"
"Oh no, it is old Mr ***'s daughter, the only white lady in the island that I know of; and I suppose one of her brothers is accompanying her—ho, ho, he."
"Very like; but who have we here?" as a tall dark figure in jacket and trowsers, with a Spanish cap on his head, came dancing along the ridge from the house, and singing to himself, apparently in the exuberance of his spirits.
He was soon close to, confronting us in the narrow road, bounding from side to side of the crumbling ledges of the footpath with the buoyancy of boyhood, although the frame, seen between me and the starlight sky, appeared Herculean.
"Hillo, Walpole, what has kept you so late?"