mother that I was going, for he said it would be better
not. In the morning he would simply let her know I was going over to
Guernsey. No communication had ever passed between the old woman and me
except by signs, yet I should miss even her in that cold, careless crowd
in which I was about to be lost, in the streets of London.

We started at four in the morning, while the gray sky was dappled over
with soft clouds, and the sea itself seemed waking up from sleep, as if
it too had been slumbering through the night. The morning mist upon the
cliffs made them look mysterious, as if they had some secrets to
conceal. Untrodden tracks climbed the surface of the rocks, and were
lost in the fine filmy haze. The water looked white and milky, with
lines across it like the tracks on the cliffs, which no human foot could
tread; and the tide was coming back to the shore with a low, tranquil,
yet sad moan. The sea-gulls skimmed past us with their white wings,
almost touching us; their plaintive wailing seeming to warn us of the
treachery and sorrow of the sea. I was not afraid of the treachery of
the sea, yet I could not bear to hear them, nor could Tardif.

We landed at one of the stone staircases running up the side of the pier
at Guernsey; for we were only just in time for the steamer. The steps
were slimy and wet with seaweed, but Tardif's hand grasped mine firmly.
He pushed his way through the crowd of idlers who were watching the
lading of the cargo, and took me down immediately into the cabin.

"Good-by, mam'zelle," he said; "I must leave you. Send for me, or come
to me, if you are in trouble and I can do any thing for you. If it were
to Australia, I would follow you. I know I am only fit to be your
servant, but all the same I am your friend. You have a little regard for
me, mam'zelle?"

"O Tardif!" I sobbed, "I love you very dearly."

"Now that makes me glad," he said, holding my hand between his, and
looking down at me with tears in his eyes; "you said that from your good
heart, mam'zelle. When I am out alone in my boat, I shall think of it,
and in the long winter nights by the fire, when there is no little
mam'zelle to come and talk to me, I shall say to myself, 'She loves you
very dearly.' Good-by, mam'zelle. God be with you and protect you!"

"Good-by," I said, with a sore grief in my heart, "good-by, Tardif. It
is very dreadful to be alone again."

There was no time to say more, for a bell rang loudly on deck, and w