ud in his own blunt, affectionate way; to begin with, those
who had last returned from Iceland spoke of the increasing dense fogs
that might well have delayed the vessel; and then, too, an idea struck
him; they might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on
their homeward course, whence letters were so long in travelling. This
had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own poor dead and gone
mother had had a mass said for his soul. The _Leopoldine_ was such a
good boat, next to new, and her crew were such able-bodied seamen.

Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head; the distress of her
granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason; she
tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the faded portrait of
Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and
mourning-wreath of black bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of
her own last offspring she believed no longer in safe returns; she only
prayed through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her heart.

But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her large
sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old sire, who so
much resembled her beloved one; merely to have him near her was like
a hostage against death having taken the younger Gaos; and she felt
reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her tears fell softly and silently, and
she repeated again her passionate prayers to the "Star of the Sea."

A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very likely event.
She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed as if she might fairly
expect him. All then was not lost, if a seaman, his own father, did not
yet despair. And for a few days, she resumed looking out for him again.

Autumn at last arrived, a late autumn too, its gloomy evenings making
all things appear dark in the old cottage, and all the land looked
sombre, too.

The very daylight seemed crepuscular; immeasurable clouds, passing
slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at broad noon. The wind blew
constantly with the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but
playing profane, despairing dirges; at other times the noise came close
to the door, like the howling of wild beasts.

She had grown pale, aye, blanched, and bent more than ever, as if old
age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Often did she
finger the wedding clothes of her Yann, folding and unfolding them again
and agai