ght 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
traveling. 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 a sort of twilight; 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 them and unfolding them
again and again like some maniac,--especially one of his blue woolen
jerseys which still had preserved his shape: when she threw