hat redden some of its fields.

And all this because of a little child that was the only thing left that
had belonged to the woman he had loved so greatly! He said that perhaps
that Virgin on the hills might still be looking far out over the waters,
and he knelt before a little crucifix which hung from a nail in the rough
boards of the walls. I heard him repeating, in a low voice, in soft quick
words, the prayers his faith led him to hope might be hearkened to by the
Lady of Sorrows, as she watched from that little hill on the other side
of the great sea.

The poor candle was guttering and the wind howled outside. I looked
around and saw the few clothes hanging from pegs, the rusty cracked
stove, the table made of rough boards, the bunk filled with dry moss and
seaweed, and then my eye caught one flaring note of color. It was a
gaudily hued print representing a woman holding aloft a tricolor flag,
and labelled _La Republique Francaise_! And the poor cheap picture was
all of the inheritance of this man, marooned and outlawed for the sake of
a woman and her dying kiss, which had been the only reward of all his
devotion.

So I sat there, awed by the greatness of it all. There were no tears in
my eyes; indeed, it seemed too big a thing for tears, a revelation and an
outlook upon life so vast that it held me spell-bound. I had never
realized that love could be such a thing as that, feeding upon a mere sad
memory, able to take this rough viking of a man and toss him, a plaything
of its stupendous force, upon these barren rocks. Surely it was arrant
folly, utter insanity, but it showed that men's lives are not regulated
by clockwork, and that, however erring an ideal may be, the passions it
may inspire can bring out the greatness of manhood or the ardent devotion
of women.

It awed me to think that among the teeming millions of the earth there
were thousands upon thousands bound to potential outbursts of a love that
may slumber quietly until death or awake, great and inspiring in its
might.

As the muttered prayers went on I watched the uneasy tossing of the
child, until Susie Sweetapple came in, hurried and dripping.

"You's got ter come home," she said. "Yer father he's bawlin' as how he
wants yer back. My, the poor mite of a young 'un! The face o' he looks
dreadful bad! D'ye know it's most midnight? Come erlong now, ma'am."

I rose, feeling very trembly about the knees. There was nothing that I
could do. I could not