ny bushes, perfumed the air. Had it not been
for Granny Yvonne waiting for her at home, she would have loitered along
the reed-strewn paths, like the beautiful ladies in stories, who dream
away the summer evenings in their fine parks.

Many thoughts of her early childhood came back to her as she passed
through the country; but they seemed so effaced and far away now,
eclipsed by her love looming up between.

In spite of all, she went on thinking of Yann as engaged in a degree--a
restless, scornful betrothed, whom she never would really have, but to
whom she persisted in being faithful in mind, without speaking about it
to any one. For the time, she was happy to know that he was off
Iceland; for there, at least, the sea would keep him lonely in her deep
cloisters, and he would belong to no other woman.

True, he would return one of these days, but she looked upon that return
more calmly than before. She instinctively understood that her poverty
would not be a reason for him to despise her; for he was not as other
men. Moreover, the death of poor Sylvestre would draw them closer
together. Upon his return, he could not do otherwise than come to see
his friend's old granny; and Gaud had decided to be present at that
visit; for it did not seem to her that it would be undignified.
Appearing to remember nothing, she would talk to him as to a long-known
friend; she would even speak with affection, as was due to Sylvestre's
brother, and try to seem easy and natural. And who knows? Perhaps it
would not be impossible to be as a sister to him, now that she was so
lonely in the world; to rely upon his friendship, even to ask it as a
support, with enough preliminary explanation for him not to accuse her
of any after-thought of marriage.

She judged him to be untamed and stubborn in his independent ideas, yet
tender and loyal, and capable of understanding the goodness that comes
straight from the heart.

How would he feel when he met her again, in her poor ruined home? Very,
very poor she was--for Granny Moan was not strong enough now to go out
washing, and only had her small widow's pension left; granted, she ate
but little, and the two could still manage to live, not dependent upon
others.

Night was always fallen when she arrived home; before she could enter
she had to go down a little over the worn rocks, for the cottage
was placed on an incline towards the beach, below the level of the
Ploubazlanec roadside. It was almost