It might have been supposed one morning—the 21st—that the first snow had already made its appearance. In fact Herbert looking early from one of the windows of Granite House, exclaimed,—
“Hallo! the islet is covered with snow!”
“Snow at this time?” answered the reporter, joining the boy.
Their companions were soon beside them, but could only ascertain one thing, that not only the islet but all the beach below Granite House was covered with one uniform sheet of white.
“It must be snow!” said Pencroft.
“Or rather it’s very like it!” replied Neb.
“But the thermometer marks fifty-eight degrees!” observed Gideon Spilett.
Cyrus Harding gazed at the sheet of white without saying anything, for he really did not know how to explain this phenomenon, at this time of year and in such a temperatu
