wo women were deeply busy in writing a letter. This took place beforea

e old-fashioned cap; the other quite asmall one, in the new style adopted by the women of Paimpol.

h, and stillfresh-coloured, with the rosy cheeks some old people have. Her/coiffe/ was drawn low upon the forehead and upon the top of the head,was composed of two or three large rolls of muslin that seemed totelescope out of one another, and fell on to the na

he habit of saying), her profile was not spoiled by time;and it was easily imagined

ountry ofPaimpol another dear old body like her, to invent such funny storiesupon everybody, and even upon nothing. Already in

he ideas were getting scarce, beg

ey eyes between almostblack lashes; her brows, as fair as the hair, seemed as if they had adarker streak in their midst, which gave a wonderful expression ofstrength and will to the beautiful face. The rather short profile wasvery dignified, the nose continuing the line of the brow with absoluterectitude, as in a Greek statue. A deep dimple under

f her eyes was bot

on either side, showing thick tresses of hair about theears, a head-dress that h

tly than thepoor old woman to whom she gave the name of gr

Icelander, a bit of afreebooter, who had ma

lls a light-coloured paper, toning down the irregularitiesof the granite; overhead a coating of whitewash covered the greatbeams that revealed the antiq

ung Gaos" was otherwise called Yann. The proud beautiful girl hadblushed very red when she wrote those words. And as soon as they wereadded at t

ng as that of a fashionable dame. In spiteof her cap, she looked like a real lady. Even her han

ered, during the finesummers, by poor Granny Moan, who used to give her Sylvestre to mindduring her days of hard work in Paimpol. Gaud felt the adoration of ayoung mother for the child confided to her tender care. She was hiselder by about eighteen months. He was as dark as she was fair, asobedient and caressing as

had been taken to Saint-Brieuc, and later to Paris. Andfrom /la petite Gaud/ she had become Mademoiselle Marguerite, tall andserious, with earne

herself. Although she still wore the /coiffe/ that Breton womend

old memories, delighted to hear herself called Gaud,rather curious to see the Icelanders of whom so much was said, whowere never at home, and of whom, each y

shers,through a whim of her father, who had wished to end his da

other end of Ploubazlanec, in a hamleton the coast, in the same cottage where she first had seen the lightof day, and where her sons and grandsons had been born. I

always wore the tiny brown Paimpol shawl, which was forbest, and upon which the long muslin rolls of her white caps hadfallen for past sixty yea

er pointed chin, her soft eyes and delicate profilemade all think her still very charming.

livelong day, while the young ones, his sons,worked in the shop. It was said that he never had consoled himself forher loss, for neither in first or second marr

not yet quite decided to havethat dress made. The truth is, that the old man, with ratherquesti

d scarcelytake it good-naturedly. She felt more tired than ever of her hard-working life, and her thoughts flew back to her dear grandson--t

e thought alone was agonyto her. No, she was su

neall they could to keep him from having to start, urging that he wasthe sole support of an old and almost destitute grandmother, who couldno longer work. But they had not succeeded--because of Jean Mo

r small pension, allowedto the widows of sailors

he prayed again with renewedstrength and confidence for her Sylvestre, and tried to sleep--thinking of th

ed on the granite walls, and the black swallows wheeling acrossthe sky above. Paimpol was always quiet on these long May evenings,even on Sunda

been greatly affected inwriting that sentence,

venings here at the win

early playmates. And as he left the cafe, andwalked up and down, smoking his pipe with old se

the tiny street crowdedwith fishermen. And her thoughts travelled through a fascinating anddelightful infinite, f

sible now, after having come forw

dear old times of the past! Thissilence, after Paris! This quiet life of people, who seemed of anotherworld, going about their simple business in the misty morning. But thesombre granite houses, with their dark, damp walls, and the Bretoncharm upon all things, which fascinated her now that she loved Yann,had seemed particularly saddening upon that morning. Early housewiveswere already opening their doors, and as she passed she could glancein

emed lost in thevagueness of the arches. Gaud experienced there the feeling of a long-forgotten impression: that kind

t like a stranger and an intruder. The /Parisiennes/ were tight-laced, artificial women, who had a peculiar way of walking; and Gaudwas too intelligent even to have attempted to imitate them. In herhead-dress, or

hile from others of a lower caste who would have been glad to makefriends with her, she kept proudly aloof, judging them unworthy of her

et that life of estra

Brittany, seen in full winter. Andher heart sickened at the thought of having to travel another five or

o be lit, and she could perceive nothing else but whatseemed two trails of green Bengal lights, running on each side beforethe horses, and which were merely the beams that the two lanternsprojected on the never-ending hedges of the roadway. But how was itthat trees were so green in

famous fishermen of Iceland."For in December they were to return, the brothers, cousins, and loversof whom all her friends, great and small, had spok

and her heart had been ca