“Just so; he never had ought to have disturbed her—­her in particular.”

“I!” ejaculated Gaud, quickly, “why should I not be disturbed particularly, Fantec?”

Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish to appear in despair before others.  Besides, she pitied him now; she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and see to his little child.

At four o’clock in the morning, when she returned to throw herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out.  But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her mind, which, in spite of all, was permanent; she awoke soon with a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting—­she knew not what.  News had come to her concerning her Yann.  In the midst of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what it could be, but there was nothing save Fantec’s interruption.

For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss, nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.

Yet in that short, hopeful moment she had felt him so near to her, that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto her, what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting that some one might come to her to speak of him.

Just as the day broke Yann’s father entered.  He took off his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in curls like Yann’s, and sat down by Gaud’s bedside.

His heart ached fully, too, for Yann, his tall, handsome Yann, was his first-born, his favourite and his pride; but he did not despair yet.  He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affectionate way; to begin with, those who had last returned from Iceland spoke of the increasing dense fogs that might well have delayed the vessel; and then, too, an idea struck him; they might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on their homeward course, whence letters were so long in travelling.  This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.  The Leopoldine was such a good boat, next to new, and her crew were such able-bodied seamen.

Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head; the distress of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason; she tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black bead-work.  Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last offspring she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her heart.

But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old sire, who so much resembled her beloved one; merely to have him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann.  Her tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passionate prayers to the “Star of the Sea.”