It was one of many fisher dwellings standing in rows on either side the narrow village street that ran straight down to the sea. From the great expanse of water washing the pebbly beach and curling up about the high cliff-side all the town gained its living. Jean-Paul knew little of danger, and cared still less. He only knew that he was strong and fifteen years old, that his father had gone to sea at his age; his friends had left the dull little town, and he too longed to board one of the straight-masted vessels that stood so proudly in the harbors of Fécamp and Havre, and put far out and away to follow his fortune and to know the sea. Jean-Paul sat before the rough pine table in the room that served as kitchen, bedroom, and all rooms in one; he was eating his supper of lentil soup and a piece of coarse bread. Opposite him sat his grandmother, in her white peasant cap and her short blue skirt; she was knitting, and Jean-Paul watched the candle-light flicker on her needles. "Grandmother," he said, trying to speak at his ease, "I am fifteen years old now." "Yes," nodded the old woman. "And I am strong too. See?" and he rolled up his blue sleeve and showed her a stout brown arm of which he might well have been proud. "And yesterday with Père Guillaume, whom thou knowest is a weak old man, I dragged in the boat--our boat. In truth, grandmother, it was I, and not Père Guillaume, who made her slide up on the beach." "Yes," she said, "thou art strong. Praise God keep thy strength; it is mine as well; I need thee, my son." The bright face of Jean-Paul fell; he ate on in silence for a little, then said, with an effort, "Grandmother, the _Belle Hélène_ sails to-morrow week." At this Mère Vatinel let her knitting fall, and clasped her hands on the table and faced her grandson. "Jean-Paul," she said, "I am nearly ninety years old; I have but you; the sea has taken all the rest--my two big sons and thy mother's husband, and thou knowest well that when the news came that thy father's ship would never cast anchor again, thy mother fell as one dead, and thus the sea cursed my last child. I hate the sea," she said, raising her old hand as if in turn to curse it; "it is our tomb." If Jean-Paul heard this it did not make him waver. "One must live, grandmother," he said, stanchly. "It is our friend too. All sailors are not lost. There is Joseph, who comes here every year with his pockets full of louis; and we are poor; I will come home rich, and some day I may even own my bark, grandmother; and it is so cowardly to stay at home with only the old men and the children." "And thy grandmother, Jean-Paul?" He did not reply. Then she burst into tears, and rocked to and fro. "Never, never, while I live!" she wept. "All have been taken from me. Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, thou wilt break my heart!" "Listen!" he said. "We will speak of this no more. I will not go unless thou art quite content."