She judged him to be untamed and stubborn in his independent ideas, yet tender and loyal, and capable of understanding the goodness that comes straight from the heart.

How would he feel when he met her again, in her poor ruined home?  Very, very poor she was—­for Granny Moan was not strong enough now to go out washing, and only had her small widow’s pension left; granted, she ate but little, and the two could still manage to live, not dependent upon others.

Night was always fallen when she arrived home; before she could enter she had to go down a little over the worn rocks, for the cottage was placed on an incline towards the beach, below the level of the Ploubazlanec roadside.  It was almost hidden under its thick brown straw thatch, and looked like the back of some huge beast, shrunk down under its bristling fur.  Its walls were sombre and rough like the rocks, but with tiny tufts of green moss and lichens over them.  There were three uneven steps before the threshold, and the inside latch was opened by a length of rope-yarn run through a hole.  Upon entering, the first thing to be seen was the window, hollowed out through the wall as in the substance of a rampart, and giving view of the sea, whence inflowed a dying yellow light.  On the hearth burned brightly the sweet-scented branches of pine and beechwood that old Yvonne used to pick up along the way, and she herself was sitting there, seeing to their bit of supper; indoors she wore a kerchief over her head to save her cap.  Her still beautiful profile was outlined in the red flame of her fire.  She looked up at Gaud.  Her eyes, which formerly were brown, had taken a faded look, and almost appeared blue; they seemed no longer to see, and were troubled and uncertain with old age.  Each day she greeted Gaud with the same words: 

“Oh, dear me! my good lass, how late you are to-night!”

“No, Granny,” answered Gaud, who was used to it.  “This is the same time as other days.”

“Eh?  It seemed to me, dear, later than usual.”

They sat down to supper at their table, which had almost become shapeless from constant use, but was still as thick as the generous slice of a huge oak.  The cricket began its silver-toned music again.

One of the sides of the cottage was filled up by roughly sculptured, worm-eaten woodwork, which had an opening wherein were set the sleeping bunks, where generations of fishers had been born, and where their aged mothers had died.

Quaint old kitchen utensils hung from the black beams, as well as bunches of sweet herbs, wooden spoons, and smoked bacon; fishing-nets, which had been left there since the shipwreck of the last Moans, their meshes nightly bitten by the rats.

Gaud’s bed stood in an angle under its white muslin draperies; it seemed like a very fresh and elegant modern invention brought into the hut of a Celt.