They were discussing a new craft that
was being rigged in the harbour. She never would be ready for the next
season, so they said of this _Leopoldine_.

"Oh, yes, to be sure she will!" answered the hostess. "I tell 'ee the
crew was all made up yesterday--the whole of 'em out of the old _Marie_
of Guermeur's, that's to be sold for breaking up; five young fellows
signed their engagement here before me, at this here table, and with my
own pen--so ye see, I'm right! And fine fellows, too, I can tell 'ee;
Laumec, Tugdual Caroff, Yvon Duff, young Keraez from Treguier, and long
Yann Gaos from Pors-Even, who's worth any three on 'em!"

The _Leopoldine_! The half-heard name of the ship that was to carry Yann
away became suddenly fixed in her brain, as if it had been hammered in
to remain more ineffaceably there.

At night back again at Ploubazlanec, and finishing off her work by the
light of her pitiful lamp, that name came back to her mind, and its very
sound impressed her as a sad thing. The names of vessels, as of things,
have a significance in themselves--almost a particular meaning of their
own. The new and unusual word haunted her with an unnatural persistency,
like some ghastly and clinging warning. She had expected to see Yann
start off again on the _Marie_, which she knew so well and had formerly
visited, and whose Virgin had so long protected its dangerous voyages;
and the change to the _Leopoldine_ increased her anguish.

But she told herself that that was not her concern, and nothing about
him ought ever to affect her. After all, what could it matter to her
whether he were here or there, on this ship or another, ashore or not?
Would she feel less miserable with him back in Iceland, when the summer
would return over the deserted cottages, and lonely anxious women--or
when a new autumn came again, bringing home the fishers once more? All
that was alike indifferent to her, equally without joy or hope. There
was no link between them now, nothing ever to bring them together, for
was he not forgetting even poor little Sylvestre? So, she had plainly to
understand that this sole dream of her life was over for ever; she had
to forget Yann, and all things appertaining to his existence, even the
very name of Iceland, which still vibrated in her with so painful a
charm--because of him all such thoughts must be swept away. All was
indeed over, for ever and ever.

She tenderly looked over at the poor old woman asleep, who sti