and her gray eyes had a more reserved expression, and nevertheless
seemed to penetrate to the inner depth of the soul. Her figure, too, was
thoroughly formed. She was twenty-three now, in the full bloom of her
loveliness. She looked like a genuine fisher's daughter, too, in her
plain black gown and cap; yet one could not precisely tell what gave her
that unmistakable token of the lady; it was involuntary and concealed
within herself, and she could not be blamed for it; only perhaps her
bodice was a trifle nicer fitting than the others, though from sheer
inborn taste, and showed to advantage her rounded bust and perfect arms.
But, no! the mystery was revealed in her quiet voice and look.

CHAPTER XVII--THE ESPOUSAL

It was manifest that Yann meant to accompany them; perhaps all the way
home. They walked on, all three together, as if following the cat's
funeral procession; it was almost comical to watch them pass; and the
old folks on the doorsteps grinned at the sight. Old Yvonne, in the
middle, carried the dead pet; Gaud walked on her right, trembling and
blushing, and tall Yann on the left, grave and haughty.

The aged woman had become quiet now; she had tidied her hair up herself
and walked silently, looking alternately at them both from the tail of
her eyes, which had become clear again.

Gaud said nothing for fear of giving Yann the opportunity of taking his
leave; she would have liked to feel his kind, tender eyes eternally on
her, and to walk along with her own closed so as to think of nothing
else; to wander along thus by his side in the dream she was weaving,
instead of arriving so soon at their lonely, dark cottage, where all
must fade away.

At the door occurred one of those moments of indecision when the heart
seems to stop beating. The grandam went in without turning round, then
Gaud, hesitating, and Yann, behind, entered, too.

He was in their house for the first time in his life--probably without
any reason. What could he want? As he passed over the threshold he
touched his hat, and then his eyes fell and dwelt upon Sylvestre's
portrait in its small black-beaded frame. He went slowly up to it, as to
a tomb.

Gaud remained standing with her hands resting on the table. He looked
around him; she watched him take a silent inspection of their poverty.
Very poor looked this cottage of the two forsaken women. At least he
might feel some pity for her, seeing her reduced to this misery inside
its plai