The Pere Anselme was uneasy. Very little escaped his observation, and he saw at tea that his much loved Dame d'Heronac was not herself. She had not been herself the night before at dinner either--there was more in the coming of these two Englishmen than met the eye. He had seen her with Michael in the morning in the summer-house from a corner of the garden, too, where he was having a heated argument with the gardener in chief, as well as when he met them on the causeway bridge. He felt it his duty to do something to smooth matters, but what he could not decide. Perhaps she would tell him about it on the morrow, when he met her as was his custom on days that were not saints' days interfered with by mass. "I shall be at the gate at nine o'clock, _ma fille_," he said, when he wished her good-day. "With your permission, we must decide about the clematis trellis for the north wall without delay." Henry accompanied the old man on his walk back to the village--and they conversed in cultivated and stilted French of philosophy and of Breton fisher-folk, and of the strange, melancholy type they seemed to have. "They look ever out to sea," the priest said; "they are watching the deep waters and are conscious forever of their own and loved ones' dangers--they are _de braves gens_." "It seems so wonderful that anything so young and full of life as Mrs. Howard should have been drawn to live in such an isolated place, does it not, _mon pere_?" Henry asked. "It seems incongruous." "When she came first she was very sad. She had cause for much sorrow, the dear child--and the sea was her mate; together she and I, with the sea, have studied many things. She deserves happiness, Monsieur, her soul is as pure and as generous as an angel's--if Monsieur knew what she does for my poor people and for all who come under her care!" "It will be the endeavor of my life to make her happy, Father," and Lord Fordyce's voice was full of feeling. "Happiness can only be secured in two ways, my son. Either it comes in the guise of peace, after the flames have burnt themselves out--or it comes through fusion of love at fever heat----" "Yes?" Henry faltered, rather anxiously. "When there are still some cinders alight--the peaceful happiness is not quite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with some risks." "What makes you say this to me?" The old priest did not look at him, but continued to gaze ahead. "I have the welfare of our Dame d'Heronac very strongly at heart, Monsieur, as you can guess, and I am not altogether sure that the cinders are not still red. It would be well for you to ascertain whether this be so or not before you ask her to make fresh bonds." "You think she still cares for her husband, then?" Henry was very pale.