icity of inspiration which only true affection can give, had formally
appointed Linda Viola as under-keeper of the Isabel's Light.

"The light is private property," he used to explain. "It belongs to my
Company. I've the power to nominate whom I like, and Viola it shall be.
It's about the only thing Nostromo--a man worth his weight in gold, mind
you--has ever asked me to do for him."

Directly his schooner was anchored opposite the New Custom House, with
its sham air of a Greek temple, flatroofed, with a colonnade, Captain
Fidanza went pulling his small boat out of the harbour, bound for the
Great Isabel, openly in the light of a declining day, before all men's
eyes, with a sense of having mastered the fates. He must establish a
regular position. He would ask him for his daughter now. He thought of
Giselle as he pulled. Linda loved him, perhaps, but the old man would be
glad to keep the elder, who had his wife's voice.

He did not pull for the narrow strand where he had landed with Decoud,
and afterwards alone on his first visit to the treasure. He made for the
beach at the other end, and walked up the regular and gentle slope of
the wedge-shaped island. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar, sitting
on a bench under the front wall of the cottage, lifted his arm slightly
to his loud hail. He walked up. Neither of the girls appeared.

"It is good here," said the old man, in his austere, far-away manner.

Nostromo nodded; then, after a short silence--

"You saw my schooner pass in not two hours ago? Do you know why I am
here before, so to speak, my anchor has fairly bitten into the ground of
this port of Sulaco?"

"You are welcome like a son," the old man declared, quietly, staring
away upon the sea.

"Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well,
viejo. It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you
for----"

A sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He
dared not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a
marked weight and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.

"For my wife!" . . . His heart was beating fast. "It is time you----"

The Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. "That was left for
you to judge."

He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa's death, thick,
snow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door,
and called out in his strong voice--

"Linda."

Her answer came sharp and