ight of
time, was almost gloomy and ominous. They were like no lovers; more
serious and restless were they in their love than the common run.

Yet Yann never told her what mysterious thing had kept him away from her
for these two lonely years; and after he returned home of a night, Gaud
grew uneasy as before, although he loved her perfectly--this she knew.
It is true that he had loved her all along, but not as now; love grew
stronger in his heart and mind, like a tide rising and overbrimming. He
never had known this kind of love before.

Sometimes on their stone seat he lay down, resting his head in Gaud's
lap like a caressing child, till, suddenly remembering propriety, he
would draw himself up erect. He would have liked to lie on the very
ground at her feet, and remain there with his brow pressed to the hem of
her garments. Excepting the brotherly kiss he gave her when he came and
went, he did not dare to embrace her. He adored that invisible spirit in
her, which appeared in the very sound of her pure, tranquil voice, the
expression of her smile, and in her clear eye.

CHAPTER V--THE COST OF OBSTINACY

One rainy evening they were sitting side by side near the hearth, and
Granny Moan was asleep opposite them. The fire flames, dancing over the
branches on the hearth, projected their magnified shadows on the beams
overhead.

They spoke to one another in that low voice of all lovers. But upon this
particular evening their conversation was now and again broken by long
troubled silence. He, in particular, said very little and lowered his
head with a faint smile, avoiding Gaud's inquiring eyes. For she had
been pressing him with questions all the evening concerning that mystery
that he positively would not divulge; and this time he felt himself
cornered. She was too quick for him, and had fully made up her mind to
learn; no possible shifts could get him out of telling her now.

"Was it any bad tales told about me?" she asked.

He tried to answer "yes," and faltered: "Oh! there was always plenty of
rubbish babbled in Paimpol and Ploubazlanec."

She asked what, but he could not answer her; so then she thought of
something else. "Was it about my style of dress, Yann?"

Yes, of course, that had had something to do with it; at one time she
had dressed too grandly to be the wife of a simple fisherman. But he was
obliged to acknowledge that that was not all.

"Was it because at that time we passed for very rich peopl