Old Granny Moan walked around them, shaking her head; the distress of her foster grand-daughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason; she tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the little faded portrait of her Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black beadwork; no, since following the sea had robbed her of her grandson, she believed no longer in the safe return of sailors; she now prayed to the Virgin only from fear, with the outside of her poor old lips, cherishing in the bottom of her heart a grudge against her. But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings, her large sunken eyes looking with deep tenderness upon this old sire who so much resembled her well-beloved; just to have him near her was like a hostage against death, and she felt more reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her tears fell silently and more gently, and she repeated again her passionate prayers to the Virgin, Star of the Sea. A stop-over, 'way out at those islands, to repair damages, was a likely event. She rose, brushed her hair, and made some sort of toilet, as if he might possibly return. Doubtless all was not lost if his own father did not yet despair. And for a few days she again took up her waiting. It was full autumn now, late autumn--with the nightfalls gloomy, and all things growing dark early in the old cottage, and all the Breton land looking sombre, too. The very days seemed but twilight; immeasurable clouds, slowly passing, would suddenly bring darkness at broad noon. The wind moaned constantly--it was like the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane airs, or despairing dirges; at other times it would come close to the door, and lift up a howl like wild beasts. She had grown pale, pale, and became ever more dejected, as if old age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Very often she would finger the belongings of her Yann, his fine wedding clothes, folding and unfolding them like some maniac--especially one of his blue woolen jerseys, which still retained the form of his body; when thrown gently on the table, it disclosed from long usage the outlines of his shoulders and chest; but at last she placed it by itself on a shelf of their wardrobe, never to remove it, so that it might long preserve that impress. Every evening cold mists rose from the ground; then through her little window she would gaze over the melancholy land, where little patches of white smoke began to rise here and there from other chimneys: the rest of the men had returned, migratory birds driven home by the cold. And before many of these fires the evenings would be sweet; for the spring-time of love had begun with winter, in all this country of “Icelanders”. Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might perhaps have put in, buoyed up by a kind of hope, she had again begun to expect him. * * * * *