civilised spot upon the map of earth. Bold
sea-rovers who would smoke the pipe of
calmness in the teeth of the wildest
Biscayan gale, look askance at Golden Isle.
If approach they must, the glass is never
from the captain's hand, nor the line from
the leadsman's. From time to time some
intrepid yacht makes a summer snatch at
this sea-cherry, and is off again at the full
stretch of her white pinions. The very
steamboat captains—those hardly sufficiently
recognised heroes of modern navigation
—pretend to nothing, guarantee
nothing, predicate nothing, in relation to their
goings and returnings to and fro the Isle of
Gold.

But for such as do set foot on its blest
shores, what a scene of lavish glory is
prepared! Cliffs pearl white to ruby-red,
passemented with rich sea-green growths and
streaked with gleaming sulphur, compose
the fairy battlements which open upon a
prospect to which no attribute of picturesque
beauty seems wanting; and for those who
weary of the silver sands and deep limpid
pools, peopled (so say the divers, but at
twenty fathoms deep the imagination grows
lively) with creatures strange and lovely—
for these, hill and valley, lake and lawn,
moorland and forest, are ready to recal the
fairest features of the mother land.

Distempered minds have fastened upon
one supposed defect in the Golden Isle—
fogs! Pshaw! If a pure silvery gauze
that, like a bride's veil, tempers, not
conceals, the bewildering beauty underneath,
and, when it rises, leaves, as in queenly
compensation, a separate diamond on every
leaf and flower—if this be fog, granted.
To us, it is a mist of the mind, a fog of the
fancy!

In the Golden Isle the birds and butterflies
are more richly hued, the fruits larger
(for we put aside as worthless the dropsical
apples and turgid pears, skilfully swollen
by hydraulic means for the Paris market),
and the flora more varied and vivid than in
any land beyond the tropics. Africa
herself might be suspected of a slender brown
finger in that glorious pie.

British as to her allegiance, the prevailing l
anguage of the isle is French. The
greater portion of the resident families are
of Breton origin, and many a great old
name, smacking of history, may be met
with, not only in connexion with the stately
country seat and wide demesne, but
modestly crowning the portal of some small
store or wayside inn.

As a rule, estates run small in the Golden
Isle, most proprietors contenting themselves
with comparative strips of paradise, and
eschewing the dignity, and therewith the
care, of wide dominion. Hence "hall,"
"towers," "park," and "abbey" are rarely
found; while endearing and fantastic titles,
such as " Mon Loisir," " Mon Port," " Mon
Bonheur," "Mon Rève," &c., culminating
in "Mon Vœu Suprème," are familiar as
hazel nuts in August. Among these—
misnamed, alas!—lie the incidents of my
strange sinister story.

Persons are yet living who can remember
the arrival in the island of a retired Indian
officer, Colonel Fonnereau, and the purchase
by that gentleman of the beautiful villa
and grounds of "Mon Désir." He had
possessed considerable property in one of
the West India Islands, but, on the death
of his wife, resolved to relinquish it, and,
sending his only child, a daughter, to
Europe for the advantage of climate and
education, followed himself as soon as his affairs
permitted. Colonel Fonnereau was still
but forty-five, in the prime of health and
vigour. When it is mentioned that to the
dignity and self-possession of the soldier
he added a noble person, gentle disposition,
and winning manners, it will surprise no
one to learn that his settling down in that
pleasant locality was a welcome
circumstance in the neighbourhood, the satisfaction
being enhanced when, her cage being at
length opened, his bright little bird,
Geraldine, flew back to the paternal nest. She
had been, for eighteen months, a boarder in
a French convent in the isle; but the period
had been far from a painful one. She had
been the solace and delight of the kind
sisters, and the tears her father wiped away
were not all for the joy of that coveted
reunion.

Geraldine, though hardly fourteen, was
advanced for her age, and ripening fast
towards a beauty that promised to be
marvellous. Her father, despite his own secret
preconceived opinion as to her personal
gifts, stood perfectly amazed at the change
so short a period had effected, and held her
from him for a moment in fond but well
concealed exultation.

"Papa! papa! what is the matter?"
asked Geraldine at length.

"Why, what great gaunt thing is this
they send me back?" said the delighted
father, forcing a frown, " with a great touzle
of hair, and—and—My darling!"

The " touzle " was spread upon the
colonel's broad chest like a corslet of gold.

The business of settling themselves in