of horror, and started back from the bedside.
Still the old man reiterated, "The White
Women! The White Women! Open the
door, Gabriel! look out westward, where the
ebb tide has left the sand dry. You'll see
them bright as lightning in the darkness,
mighty as the angels in stature, sweeping like
the wind over the sea, in their long white
garments, with their white hair trailing far
behind them! Open the door, Gabriel!
You'll see them stop and hover over the
place where your father and your brother
have been drowned; you'll see them come on
till they reach the sand; you'll see them
dig in it with their naked feet, and beckon
awfully to the raging sea to give up its dead.
Open the door, Gabriel—or though it should
be the death of me, I will get up and open it
myself!"

Gabriel's face whitened even to his lips,
but he made a sign that he would obey. It
required the exertion of his whole strength to
keep the door open against the wind, while
he looked out.

"Do you see them, grandson Gabriel?
Speak the truth, and tell me if you see them,"
cried the old man.

"I see nothing but darkness—pitch
darkness," answered Gabriel, letting the door
close again.

"Ah! woe! woe!" groaned his grand-
father, sinking back exhausted on the pillow.
"Darkness to you; but bright as lightning
to the eyes that are allowed to see them.
Drowned! drowned! Pray for their souls,
Gabriel—I see the White Women even where
I lie, and dare not pray for them. Son and
grandson drowned! both drowned!"

The young man went back to Rose and the
children. "Grandfather is very ill to-night,"
he whispered, "You had better all go into the
bedroom, and leave me alone to watch by
him."

They rose as he spoke, crossed themselves
before the image of the Virgin, kissed him
one by one, and without uttering a word,
softly entered the little room on the other side
of the partition. Gabriel looked at his
grandfather, and saw that he lay quiet now, with
his eyes closed as if he were already dropping
asleep. The young man then heaped some
fresh logs on the fire, and sat down by it to
watch till morning. Very dreary was the
moaning of the night-storm; but it was not
more dreary than the thoughts which now
occupied him in his solitude—thoughts
darkened and distorted by the terrible superstitions
of his country and his race. Ever since
the period of his mother's death he had been
oppressed by the conviction that some curse
hung over the family. At first they had been
prosperous, they had got money, a little
legacy had been left them. But this good
fortune had availed only for a time; disaster
on disaster strangely and suddenly succeeded.
Losses, misfortunes, poverty, want itself
had overwhelmed them; his father's temper
had become so soured, that the oldest friends
of François Sarzeau declared he was
changed beyond recognition. And now,
all this past misfortune—the steady, withering,
household blight of many years—had
ended in the last worst misery of all—
in death. The fate of his father and his
brother admitted no longer of a doubt—he
knew it, as he listened to the storm, as he
reflected on his grandfather's words, as he
called to mind his own experience of the
perils of the sea. And this double bereavement
had fallen on him just as the time was
approaching for his marriage with Rose; just
when misfortune was most ominous of evil,
just when it was hardest to bear!
Forebodings which he dared not realise began now
to mingle with the bitterness of his grief,
whenever his thoughts wandered from the
present to the future; and as he sat by the
lonely fireside, murmuring from time to time
the Church prayer for the repose of the dead,
he almost involuntarily mingled with it
another prayer, expressed only in his own
simple words, for the safety of the living—
for the young girl whose love was his sole
earthly treasure; for the motherless children
who must now look for protection to him
alone.

He had sat by the hearth a long, long
time, absorbed in his thoughts, not once
looking round towards the bed, when he was
startled by hearing the sound of his
grandfather's voice once more. "Gabriel,"
whispered the old man, trembling and shrinking
as he spoke. "Gabriel, do you hear a
dripping of water—now slow, now quick again—
on the floor at the foot of my bed?"

"I hear nothing, grandfather, but the
crackling of the fire, and the roaring of the
storm outside."

"Drip, drip, drip! Faster and faster;
plainer and plainer. Take the torch, Gabriel;
look down on the floor—look with all your
eyes. Is the place wet there? Is it God's
rain that is dropping through the roof?"

Gabriel took the torch with trembling
fingers, and knelt down on the floor to examine
it closely. He started back from the place, as
he saw that it was quite dry—the torch
dropped upon the hearth—he fell on his knees
before the statue of the Virgin and hid his
face.

"Is the floor wet? Answer me, I command
you!—Is the floor wet?"—asked the old man
quickly and breathlessly. Gabriel rose, went
back to the bedside, and whispered to him
that no drop of rain had fallen inside the
cottage. As he spoke the words, he saw a
change pass over his grandfather's face—the
sharp features seemed to wither up on a
sudden; the eager expression to grow vacant
and death-like in an instant. The voice too
altered; it was harsh and querulous no more;
its tones became strangely soft, slow, and
solemn, when the old man spoke again.

"I hear it still," he said, "drip! drip!