Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did not miss me till all were past, and when he came to find me, he was frightened at my agitation. It was some time before I could even be got to move or speak. Andrew brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always carried, fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at last I was able to tell him the story. "Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I thought there was something peculiar about her. She does not look very happy with her new friends. I wonder what they will do with her?" "Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her up to some one," I answered. "Julienne's sister says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau, when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her farm." "But the farm is her father's, and will descend to her brother, won't it?" asked Andrew in surprise. "Did you not tell me she had a brother who was expected home?" "Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like him, I am sure. But he is of the Religion, like his father, and if Lucille should marry a Catholic, * the law would find some way of handing the farm over to him, though David is honest and industrious, and Pierre is a bit of a reprobate. I hope David will come; I should like you to see him." * I do not like to use Catholic in this sense, but we were in a manner forced to it at that time.—G. C. "Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a good bit of a man as well," said Andrew. "I saw him give that great hulking Antoine Michaud a blow that knocked him flat because he insulted that poor old woman whose grandchildren were taken away from her." (I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mère Luchon had been allowed to return to her cottage, being, I suppose, too small game to be worth the bagging, or perhaps with the hope of catching some one else by her means.) "He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued Andrew. "I went out with him yesterday, and I never saw a boat better handled, though it is a horrid old tub, too. Such a fellow ought to be a soldier or sailor. Many a man has made a good record on shipboard who would never do anything for himself." "I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said I. "But come, Andrew, we must go home." We had been sitting all this time on the top of the rock, in the very place where Lucille had cleared a spot for her spindle. As we rose, we both cast a glance over the landscape. "There is going to be a storm," said I. "See how the sea-birds are all flying to shore, and how the fog is beginning to creep in from the sea. I am glad I am not going to cross the Grèves this day. Some one is sure to go astray and be lost." "Drowned by the tide?" asked Andrew.