come to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again, "do you love Marie-Louise?"

Jean's lips were quivering now.

"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her."

The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with more of an effort.

"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers—it is her dot. But it is not of that, I fear—it is not of that—" his voice died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now, "do you love Marie-Louise?"

"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life."

"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then, Jean—she is a gift to you from the sea—from the sea to-night. She loves you, Jean—she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?"

The tears were in Jean's eyes.

"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly.

"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again its old rugged strength. "Ay—I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her."

"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice.

"It is well, then," Gaston murmured—and lay back upon the bed.

For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing.

"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, mon brave, and—"

Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the chair.

Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other.

"It is destiny—the Perigeau—the light is out—René, it is—" The words trailed off into incoherency.

The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away—perhaps it was hushed because old Gaston was like this—Marie-Louise had been gone a long time—presently she and Father Anton would be back, and—

He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, the lips struggling to say something.

"What is it, Gaston?" he asked.

"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is—for—the last time. Go and—light—the—great lamp."

"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room—but at the door he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room.

Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly.

"It burns?" he cried out.

"It burns," said Jean steadily.

And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again.

And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the opening of the front door—and then it seemed to Jean that a benediction had fallen upon the room.

Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his soutane splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of silver hair, grew very grave—and without moving from his position he beckoned to Jean.

"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone."

Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped aside for Jean to pass—and then the door dosed quietly.

"Jean!"—she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!"

Jean did not answer—there were no words with which to answer her.

"Oh, Jean!" she said—and a little sob broke her voice.

"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said.

"No—not now," she answered. "Give me your hand."

They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them now.

Her hand tightened.

"I know," she said. "It is the Sacrament."

"He said he had taught you to be never afraid," said Jean.

Her hand tightened again.

It was a long while. And then the door behind them opened, and Father Anton came between them, and drew Marie-Louise's head to his bosom and stroked her hair, and placed his other arm around Jean's shoulders—and for a moment he stood like that—and then he drew them to the window.

"See, my children," he said gently, "there are the stars, and there is peace after the storm. It is so with sorrow, for out of the blackness of grief God brings us comfort in His own good pleasure. He has called Gaston home."

— II —

THE BEACON

It was half clay, half mud; but out of it one could fashion the little poupées, the dolls for the children. They would not last very long, it was true; but then one fashioned them quickly, and there was delight in making them.

Jean dug a piece of the clay with his sheaf knife, leaned over from the bank of the little creek, and moistened it in the water. He dug another, moistened that, moulded the two together—and Marie-Louise smiled at him a little tremulously, as their eyes met.

The tears were very near to those brave dark eyes since three days ago. Jean mechanically added a third piece of clay to the other two. Much had happened in those three days—all Bernay-sur-Mer seemed changed since that afternoon when Gaston, so Marie-Louise had told him, seeing a boat adrift and fearing there might be some one in it, had tried during a lull in the storm to reach it with her assistance, and an oar had broken, and the tide on the ebb had driven them close to the Perigeau where they had swamped, and somehow Gaston had been flung upon the outer edges of the reef, and the boat, sodden, weighted, following, had crushed him against the rocks.

Jean looked at Marie-Louise again. She was all in black now—she and good Mother Fregeau had made the dress between them for the church that morning, when Father Anton had said the mass for Gaston. But Marie-Louise was not looking at him—her elbows were on the ground, her chin was cupped in her hands, and the long black lashes veiled her eyes. She had not told him any more of the story—Jean could picture that for himself. How many times must she have risked her life to have pulled Gaston to the rocks higher up upon the reef! A daughter of France, Gaston had called her. Bon Dieu, but she was that, with her courage and her strength! One would not think the strength was there, but then the black dress did not cling like the wet clothes that other night to show the litheness of the rounded limbs.

His fingers began to work into the clay, unnaturally diffident and hesitant at first, not with the deft certainty of their custom, but as though groping tentatively for something that was curiously intangible, that eluded them. Marie-Louise, as she had been that night, was living before him again—the lines of her form so full of grace and so beautiful, so full of the