And evening comes.... The fogs float up, pink and weightless, enveloping the shore, the village, while the jetty, almost black, assumes the appearance of the hull of a huge vessel without masts; the sun inclines its copper-colored ball toward the sea, tracing a path of rippling, crimson light upon its limitless extent. Near the shore the water grows darker, and sparkles flare up on the crests of the waves. At this sad hour I return through the fields, meeting again the same carts pulled by oxen covered with cloths of grey flax, seeing the same silhouettes of peasants who, bent over the niggardly soil, struggle grimly with the heath and the rocks. And upon the heights of Saint-Jean where the windmills rotate their sails in the blue of the sky, the same calvary stretches out its supplicating arms.... I lived at the end of the village with Mother Le Gannec, an excellent woman who took care of me as well as she could. The house which opened on the main road was clean, well-kept, furnished with new and shining furniture. The poor woman strove to please me, worked desperately to invent something that would smooth my brow, that would bring a smile upon my lips. She was really touching. Every time I came down in the morning I would find her, knitting stockings or spinning, finished with her housework, alive, alert, almost pretty in her flat cap, her short black shawl, and her apron of green serge. "Friend Mintié!" she would exclaim, "I have cooked some nice shell-fish fricassee for supper for you.... If you like sea-eel soup better, I'll make you some sea-eel soup." "Just as you please, Mother Le Gannec." "But you always say the same thing. Ah! by Jesus! Friend Lirat was not like you at all. 'Mother Le Gannec, I want some oysters and some periwinkles.' To be sure I gave him some oysters and some periwinkles!... But he was never as sad as you are. Why no, indeed!" And Mother Le Gannec told me some stories about Lirat who stayed with her a whole autumn. "And he was so lively and so intrepid!... He would go out in the rain 'to take some views.' It did not hurt him a bit. He would come back drenched to the bones but always gay, always singing!... You ought to have seen that fellow eat! Ah, he could swallow the sea in the morning!" Sometimes, to distract me, she told me her misfortunes, simply, without complaining, repeating with sublime resignation: "Whatever the good Lord wishes, we must wish also. To cry over it all the time won't help matters a bit." And in a musical voice which all Bretons possess, she used to say: