A year later the “Gamin” and Piotr were returning from a delightful prawn-fishing expedition in the deep rock pools that offer at low tide, especially on granite shores such as those of Plenhöel, miraculous chances for that kind of sport. _Haveneaux_ on shoulder, they stepped briskly along the cliff path, she looking like a little girl in her short striped petticoat and _tricot_ made and worn _à la manière des marins_, her red _béret_ and rope-soled _éspadrilles_; he enormously tall and strong for his age, browned by salt water and salt breezes to a very becoming brownness. Behind them Garrassime--who seemed to have stopped getting old during the past twelve months--and Madame Hortense, always placid and comely, carried between them a great square basket fragrant of brine and seaweed, that was quite full of big, frisky _bouquins_. “We’ve got a lot!” Piotr remarked, gleefully. “And all of them as long as my hand, aren’t they, little darling Malou?” “Oh, every bit,” laughed Marguerite. “I’m not going to argue, Piotr.” “But you don’t seem convinced!” “Not convinced! You do me an injustice, young man!” remonstrated Marguerite. “We can eat them for the second breakfast, can’t we?” “Not can; _must_!” she corrected, gravely. “They’re good only when fresh off the farm, you know, _Moussaillon_.” “I like it when you call me _Moussaillon_, little darling Malou,” the boy said, proudly. “Don’t you think I am a wonderful sailor already? And as to swimming and fishing!” He smacked his rosy lips ecstatically, glancing up at her for confirmation of these tall words. “A wonderful sailor--a swimmer of extraordinary power--and as to a fisherman!” she mimicked, her lovely face crinkling into a grimace that well suited her name of “Gamin.” “You’re laughing at me! But I handle the _avirons_ almost as well as _Boustifaille_. You know I do.” “Boustifaille” was Piotr’s _canot_ boy, a wide-awake lad of fourteen, who was to ship next May on a “Banker,” and Marguerite smiled at the boastfulness of Master Piotr; although, to do him justice, the child was a born seaman, fearless as a porpoise, and inclined to be utterly reckless of any danger. For these particular traits she knew herself to be responsible. She had been and was his constant companion and instructor in the arts of natation, rowing, sailing, and fishing, and never tired of encouraging him to display further prowess. The life of Piotr at Plenhöel was ideal, between “Antinoüs,” who had come to love the boy almost as if he were his own, and Marguerite, his best and most devoted comrade. In return, nothing could be more touching than Piotr’s fealty to his lady. There were times, it is true--during his less and less frequent fits of rage--when even she could not manage him. But usually for a mere touch of her hand, a slightly sterner glance from her blue eyes, he really tried to calm himself--with more or less success, it is true, but still with extraordinary determination for one so young.