the
summer--oh, that glad old time, the dear old times of the past! This
silence, after Paris! This quiet life of people, who seemed of another
world, going about their simple business in the misty morning. But the
sombre granite houses, with their dark, damp walls, and the Breton
charm upon all things, which fascinated her now that she loved Yann, had
seemed particularly saddening upon that morning. Early housewives were
already opening their doors, and as she passed she could glance into the
old-fashioned houses, with their tall chimney-pieces, where sat the
old grandmothers, in their white caps, quiet and dignified. As soon
as daylight had begun to appear, she had entered the church to say her
prayers, and the grand old aisle had appeared immense and shadowy to
her--quite different from all the Parisian churches--with its rough
pillars worn at the base by the chafing of centuries, and its damp,
earthy smell of age and saltpetre.

In a damp recess, behind the columns, a taper was burning, before which
knelt a woman, making a vow; the dim flame seemed lost in the vagueness
of the arches. Gaud experienced there the feeling of a long-forgotten
impression: that kind of sadness and fear that she had felt when quite
young at being taken to mass at Paimpol Church on raw, wintry mornings.

But she hardly regretted Paris, although there were many splendid and
amusing sights there. In the first place she felt almost cramped from
having the blood of the vikings in her veins. And then, in Paris,
she felt like a stranger and an intruder. The _Parisiennes_ were
tight-laced, artificial women, who had a peculiar way of walking; and
Gaud was too intelligent even to have attempted to imitate them. In her
head-dress, ordered every year from the maker in Paimpol, she felt
out of her element in the capital; and did not understand that if the
wayfarers turned round to look at her, it was only because she made a
very charming picture.

Some of these Parisian ladies quite won her by their high-bred and
distinguished manners, but she knew them to be inaccessible to her,
while from others of a lower caste who would have been glad to make
friends with her, she kept proudly aloof, judging them unworthy of her
attention. Thus she had lived almost without friends, without other
society than her father's, who was engaged in business and often away.
So she did not regret that life of estrangement and solitude.

But, none the less, on that day o