was
beginning to set her sails. There was little wind; Gilliatt went faster
than the _Cashmere_. He walked with downcast eyes among the lower rocks
at the water's edge. The tide was beginning to rise.

Suddenly he stopped, and, turning his back, contemplated for some
minutes a group of oaks beyond the rocks which concealed the road to
Vale. They were the oaks at the spot called the Basses Maisons. It was
there that Deruchette once wrote with her finger the name of Gilliatt in
the snow. Many a day had passed since that snow had melted away.

Then he pursued his way.

The day was beautiful; more beautiful than any that had yet been seen
that year. It was one of those spring days when May suddenly pours forth
all its beauty, and when nature seems to have no thought but to rejoice
and be happy. Amidst the many murmurs from forest and village, from the
sea and the air, a sound of cooing could be distinguished. The first
butterflies of the year were resting on the early roses. Everything in
nature seemed new--the grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, the
rays of light. The sun shone as if it had never shone before. The
pebbles seemed bathed in coolness. Birds but lately fledged sang out
their deep notes from the trees, or fluttered among the boughs in their
attempts to use their new-found wings. There was a chattering all
together of goldfinches, pewits, tomtits, woodpeckers, bullfinches, and
thrushes. The blossoms of lilacs, May lilies, daphnes, and melilots
mingled their various hues in the thickets. A beautiful kind of
water-weed peculiar to Guernsey covered the pools with an emerald green;
where the kingfishers and the water-wagtails, which make such graceful
little nests, came down to bathe their wings. Through every opening in
the branches appeared the deep blue sky. A few lazy clouds followed each
other in the azure depths. The ear seemed to catch the sound of kisses
sent from invisible lips. Every old wall had its tufts of wallflowers.
The plum-trees and laburnums were in blossom; their white and yellow
masses gleamed through the interlacing boughs. The spring showered all
her gold and silver on the woods. The new shoots and leaves were green
and fresh. Calls of welcome were in the air; the approaching summer
opened her hospitable doors for birds coming from afar. It was the time
of the arrival of the swallows. The clusters of furze-bushes bordered
the steep sides of hollow roads in anticipation of the clust