little, and you will see. Pairs don't go loitering
down the end of the pier for nothing, with only
an old fish-woman sitting on a wall. If I had a
daughter, I know— which, God be praised, I have
not— I wouldn't have such tricks going on."

The captain, too, would have stories also
much more circumstantial, the coinage of which
were favoured by Lucy's bold and confident
behaviour before the community, and whose
contemptuous looks, as she passed leaning on
the arm of the man she thought the most
perfect in the world, seemed to challenge and defy
their remarks. This little folly produced ill
fruits, and though Vivian was inclined to draw
back and check such unnecessary displays,
Lucy's impetuosity quite overcame his
prudence. Her character was, indeed, opening
every day, and acquiring a charming piquancy
that was dramatic and attractive, and she was
learning rapidly to take responsibility and rely
upon herself. Thus the handsome man and the
pretty English "mees" went about together,
were met far off on long walks over the chalk hills,
along an endless expanse of trunk lid country,
bare, and worn, and whence they could look down
on the sea. Sometimes of a fine evening they
were passed at the end of the pier, in the darkness,
watching the fishing-boats going out for
the night.

"Nice work all this, ain't it?" Captain Filby
would say.

Lucy having an instinct of these whispers,
would not have abated a single walk, a single
incident; and her look of scorn, and defiance,
and contempt, as she passed the captain, galled
that veteran bitterly.

Our Lucy was triumphant in this course of
hers. She seemed to think that defiance won a
victory over the mean, tattling creatures of the
place. In reality, her whole victory was merely
in not hearing what they said. But she was to
be awakened.

One morning Mr. West came down, to
the surprise of the two women for whom
he rose with more interest than did the sun,
with a calm cheerfulness. He even read the
newspaper, which had long lain there neglected.
He read them out scraps of English news,
and speculated about what was going to happen
in politics.

"I see," he said abruptly, and smiling,
"you are wondering I am so sensible today. I
do feel more rational this morning—more like
a man, less like a donkey. What must you
have been thinking of me all this time, when
I have been behaving like an elderly schoolboy?"

Constance struck in, eagerly: "We don't
think so. Oh, if you knew how we pitied and
felt for you, and wished we could share your
trouble and suffering."

"I know that," he said; "and I have been
very indifferent to all your sympathy. But
there is great allowance to be made. Once
this madness gets hold of one, there is no
arguing, no sense nor logic in the business.
Time and suffering are the only remedy.
Suffering! You see, I still talk the old folly. But
henceforth, I trust,—- Well, do you know where
I was last night?"

Margaret answered bluntly: "I suppose
dismally patrolling along the pier, looking out
at the sea."

"Wrong for once, Margaret; but right so
far, that I was going there when I passed that
old church, which was all lit up, and seemed to
be actually trembling with the music inside.
I stopped for a moment and looked in."

"You looked in?" said Margaret, who was a
stern puritan.

He had indeed been passing by, when he
heard the music, and met the people coming—
principally young girls, who were being
prepared for confirmation when the bishop should
come round. He stood at the door, looking
round the old yellow church, half in light,
half in gloom, and now deserted. Presently,
he saw a confessional door open, and the curé
of the place—a sharp-faced, grey-haired M.
Giles, a picturesque figure— come out, and cross
the church. West had a slight acquaintance
with this clergyman, whom the English, true
to their caste, kept in his place as a Roman
Catholic, but who, indeed, was not conscious
of this neglect, and who had not time even
to think of acquaintances; for he had a
laborious life among the fishermen of the place, and
was known for many gentle, charitable, and
unobtrusive acts. Strangers had often noticed
the spare figure, with the iron-grey locks and
rusty gown, flitting round street corners as the
darkness fell, on some good errand. For him
Mr. West had always felt a deep interest, as
though there was something genuine in that
mass of falsity which made up the colony. As
the abbé passed, he stopped and nodded to the
Englishman with a very sweet smile.

"We have done for the night," he said. "It
is time to go home."

"You must be tired," said West;  "is there
no one to help you?"

"To be sure," said the other, rubbing his
hands. "There is my coadjutor, who does ten
times the work, and has the knack of getting
through more with only the same trouble, and
doing it quite as well. Believe me, my dear
Monsieur Vaist," said the abbé, stopping
before him and looking earnestly at him, "work
is our guardian angel; and the more work we
have, the more blessings we have. 'Laborare
est orare;' and when we have plenty to do, we
have no time to think of the little trials and
troubles which half the world fancies are breaking
its heart."

There was something so friendly and significant
in the way in which this was spoken, that
West could not but understand.

"Ah, but you have your calling, M. l'Abbé,
and do not belong to the world."

"But you, too, have you not your calling at
home, in which I hear you have eminence? And
as it seems to me," he added, with a smile,
"you are as much out of the world as I am.
Are you going home? Let us come to the