draughts of island cider. Two o'clock saw the men once more at the ploughing, and the afternoon dragged a little till four o'clock, when the housekeeper and the maids from Orvillière appeared, bringing each her large basket of mirelevée. This meant tea and currant cake, and probably cider. A halt was called. Once more the men grouped themselves into unconscious picturesquesness, and ate and drank to their fill. But at this al fresco meal a delightful air of familiarity and coquetry made itself felt by the presence of the rosy maidens from Orvillière; above all by the appearance of Blaisette Simon, who brought down a special batch of cakes, made and cooked by herself. Le Mierre was at her side at once and a pretty flirtation sprang up, for the master was in an excellent temper and the girl was marvellously taken by the handsome power and devilry of the captain of the work. Never had she seen him look half so well, she said to herself. Ah, if he proposed, she would not feel inclined to refuse him! She leant over the hedge and looked out to sea, and he stood close beside her, his blue jerseyed shoulder brushing the stray gold of her hair. Lovers they seemed, even if lovers in reality they were not.

So thought Ellenor Cartier as she watched them from the little cove below the field. She stood, a solitary figure against the sky, on the rough arm of a little harbour where she waited for the return of her father from fishing. She had been watching for the red sail of his boat since three o'clock, but she had turned many times to send hungry, lingering looks at the field, above all at the prominent figure of Le Mierre. When Blaisette came, in the glory of a new gown and a pink sunbonnet, it seemed to Ellenor that life was harder than she could bear, for she was shut out from the Grand Plough. Her father had not been asked to help, he was too much beneath the rank of Le Mierre; therefore no excuse could be framed to admit her into the enchanted field. Jealousy sharpened her eyesight, she thought she could see the white hand of Blaisette slip through Dominic's arm. It was too much. She turned away and looked out to sea, blinded by tears.

The red sail of Cartier's boat fluttered in the breeze that blew from the land, and with swift grace the little craft came into harbour. Ellenor dashed the tears from her eyes and smiled down at the men in the boat as they fastened it to a hook in the breakwater and climbed up beside her. Her father was her friend, her refuge, her comfort; and something of his influence over her seemed to belong to the other man, his mate. Perrin Corbet was tall and angular, without the slightest pretention to good looks, but with a fund of good nature and humour in his grey eyes, and when he smiled back at Ellenor a shy tenderness glorified his plain face into something far beyond mere beauty of feature.

The men and Ellenor crossed the sandy cove and climbed the winding cliff path which led directly past the Grand Plough. Jean and Perrin lingered to watch the splendid action of Le Mierre, as, once more, he led the line of animals: but Ellenor walked on and never even glanced to see if Blaisette were still in the field. She did not wait for the men and kept a little ahead of them as she mounted the cliff to the moorland above. Her head was bent, her arms hung down listlessly.

Suddenly, round a bend in the path, a number of children appeared in evident high glee. They stopped when they reached the men and explained, all speaking at once, that they were going to see La Grand' Querrue. Perrin, who loved children, listened patiently to the shrill little voices and patted the innocent faces.

"But we can't go on yet!" exclaimed the eldest of the group, "we are waiting for little Marie, she stopped to tie up her shoe. Ah, there she is!"

Perrin looked up and saw that Ellenor had lifted little Marie in her arms and was bringing her to the other children. The golden haired baby nestled her head against the girl's breast: and her chubby arm was thrown round Ellenor's neck. The two made a sweet picture. The girl's sombre face was softened by contrast with the lovely little head pressed confidingly against her. The eternal wonder of mother and child is seen whenever a woman has a baby in her arms, and though Perrin could not have explained the thrill that swept over him, he knew in his heart that the sight of the two together moved him to an intense longing, an intense reverence. In his nature was none of the coarse fibre which so often marks the men whose lives are all action, danger and privation. When Ellenor kissed little Marie and put her down with a gentleness unusual to herself, Perrin's thoughts rang of what she would be as a mother. His heart throbbed suddenly as he dared to drag to light a long-hidden secret—kept hitherto from himself. He loved her. He had loved her from childhood, when he, a big clumsy boy, had taken her part, and fought her battles, at the parish school. He wanted her for his wife. He wanted her for the mother of his children.

Ah, what a picture rose before him as his thoughts painted rapidly! A little cottage on the moorland; a rose red vraic fire; Ellenor seated in a low chair, beside her a cradle; on her lap, a little baby, with wide sad eyes like hers. He saw himself enter the cottage and fling his net into a corner; he felt her kiss on his lips, and....

"Wake up, Corbet! Not a word have you spoken since we left those children—and what with you as glum as a fish and Ellenor gone in front, its precious dull for me!"

Cartier slapped his friend on the back, and Perrin exerted himself to chat and laugh. Then, all at once, Jean broke into the talk of parish gossip.

"Look here, mon gars, I'm not happy about Ellenor. She is unhappy, worse and worse each day; and so bad tempered. You know she never gets on with her mother, poor girl; but now, even at me she snaps, and, God knows, I love her well, and she loves me."

Perrin was silent.

"Does she treat you properly?" went on Cartier.

"Well, to tell you the truth, she is not very polite at times, but I would not blame her. She always looks so sad, and, as you say, worse than ever just now. Perhaps she's ensorchelai, who can say!"

"I've thought of that—perhaps I'll get her to tell me. Well, this is your way—so à bientôt, Perrin, à bientôt!"

Corbet made his way to his home, a cottage not far from the outskirts of the moorland at whose edge stood the Haunted House. He lived with his mother, a widow and an invalid. She hardly ever left the cottage, but she made it a palace of happiness to her son. Her lovely placid old face brooded over his every want and his every look. She lived the life of a saint and had brought up her son to fear God and none else. Perrin's religious life was a deep reality to him: he never spoke of it, but in it he moved, at home, in the conscious joy of the presence of God.

Every night, when his mother had gone to bed in her tiny attic, he knelt long beside the jonquière in the corner of the hearth: and every night he prayed for Ellenor, naming her softly after the beloved word "mother."

But this night. Ellenor was first on his lips. Why was she unhappy? Why was she so unkind to the father she loved? Ah, if one could see right through her dark eyes into her sorrowful heart, one might have a chance of comforting her! But, as it was, one felt useless and blundering.

His head bent lower. Broken words came from his lips. A deep mysterious silence held the man in awe. It was as though One stood beside him while he prayed. And to that One he spoke of Ellenor.

At that very hour she was running quickly along the high road to Orvillière. The moon, full and soft as pearl, rode high in the