traits of the dead in
Brittany. This represented Sylvestre's mausoleum, and was all that
remained to consecrate his memory in his own land.

On summer evenings they did not sit up late, to save the lights; when
the weather was fine, they sat out a while on a stone bench before the
door, and looked at passers-by in the road, a little over their heads.
Then old Yvonne would lie down on her cupboard shelf; and Gaud on her
fine bed, would fall asleep pretty soon, being tired out with her day's
work, and walking, and dreaming of the return of the Icelanders. Like a
wise, resolute girl, she was not too greatly apprehensive.

CHAPTER XIII--RENEWED DISAPPOINTMENT

But one day in Paimpol, hearing that _La Marie_ had just got in,
Gaud felt possessed with a kind of fever. All her quiet composure
disappeared; she abruptly finished up her work, without quite knowing
why, and set off home sooner than usual.

Upon the road, as she hurried on, she recognised _him_, at some distance
off, coming towards her. She trembled and felt her strength giving way.
He was now quite close, only about twenty steps off, his head erect and
his hair curling out from beneath his fisher's cap. She was so taken by
surprise at this meeting, that she was afraid she might fall, and then
he would understand all; she would die of very shame at it. She thought,
too, she was not looking well, but wearied by the hurried work. She
would have done anything to be hidden away under the reeds or in one of
the ferret-holes.

He also had taken a backward step, as if to turn in another direction.
But it was too late now. Both met in the narrow path. Not to touch her,
he drew up against the bank, with a side swerve like a skittish horse,
looking at her in a wild, stealthy way.

She, too, for one half second looked up, and in spite of herself mutely
implored him, with an agonized prayer. In that involuntary meeting of
their eyes, swift as the firing of a gun, these gray pupils of hers had
appeared to dilate and light up with some grand noble thought, which
flashed forth in a blue flame, while the blood rushed crimson even to
her temples beneath her golden tresses.

As he touched his cap he faltered. "Wish you good-day, Mademoiselle
Gaud."

"Good-day, Monsieur Yann," she answered.

That was all. He passed on. She went on her way, still quivering, but
feeling, as he disappeared, that her blood was slowly circulating again
and her strength returning.

At home,