and motionless was beyond the power of
human tears, stronger even than the strength
of human love.

It was near daybreak, and the storm was
lulling—but still no change occurred at the
bedside. Once or twice, as Rose knelt near
Gabriel, still vainly endeavouring to arouse
him to a sense of her presence, she thought
she heard the old man breathing feebly, and
stretched out her hand towards the coverlid;
but she could not summon courage to touch
him or to look at him. This was the first
time she had ever been present at a deathbed;
the stillness in the room, the stupor of despair
that had seized on Gabriel, so horrified her,
that she was almost as helpless as the two
children by her side. It was not till the
dawn looked in at the cottage window—so
coldly, so drearily, and yet so reassuringly—
that she began to recover her self-possession
at all. Then she knew that her best resource
would be to summon assistance immediately
from the nearest house. While she was
trying to persuade the two children to remain
alone in the cottage with Gabriel, during her
temporary absence, she was startled by
the sound of footsteps outside the door.
It opened; and a man appeared on the
threshold, standing still there for a
moment in the dim uncertain light. She looked
closer—looked intently at him. It was
François Sarzeau himself!

He was dripping with wet; but his face
—always pale and inflexible—seemed to be
but little altered in expression by the perils
through which he must have passed during
the night. Young Pierre lay almost insensible
in his arms. In the astonishment and fright
of the first moment, Rose screamed as she
recognised him.

"There! there! there!" he said, peevishly,
advancing straight to the hearth with his
burden, "don't make a noise. You never
expected to see us alive again, I dare say.
We gave ourselves up as lost, and only
escaped after all by a miracle." He laid
the boy down where he could get the
full warmth of the fire; and then, turning
round, took a wicker-covered bottle from his
pocket, and said, "If it hadn't been for the
brandy!——" He stopped suddenly—started
—put down the bottle on the bench near
him—and advanced quickly to the bedside.

Rose looked after him as he went; and saw
Gabriel, who had risen when the door was
opened, moving back from the bed as François
approached. The young man's face seemed
to have been suddenly struck to stone—its
blank ghastly whiteness was awful to look at.
He moved slowly backward and backward
till he came to the cottage wall—then stood
quite still, staring on his father with wild
vacant eyes, moving his hands to and fro
before him, muttering; but never pronouncing
one audible word.

François did not appear to notice his son;
he had the coverlid of the bed in his hand.
"Anything the matter here?" he asked, as
he drew it down.

Still Gabriel could not speak. Rose saw it,
and answered for him. "Gabriel is afraid
that his poor grandfather is dead," she
whispered nervously.

"Dead!" There was no sorrow in the
tone, as he echoed the word. "Was he very
bad in the night before his death happened?
Did he wander in his mind? He has been
rather light-headed lately."

"He was very restless, and spoke of the
ghostly warnings that we all know of: he said
he saw and heard many things which told
him from the other world that you and Pierre
—Gabriel!" she screamed, suddenly
interrupting herself. "Look at him! Look at
his face! Your grandfather is not dead!"

At that moment, François was raising
his father's head to look closely at him. A
faint spasm had indeed passed over the
deathly face; the lips quivered, the jaw
dropped. François shuddered as he looked,
and moved away hastily from the bed. At
the same instant Gabriel started from the
wall; his expression altered, his pale cheeks
flushed suddenly, as he snatched up the
wicker-cased bottle, and poured all the little
brandy that was left in it down his
grandfather's throat. The effect was nearly
instantaneous; the sinking vital forces rallied
desperately. The old man's eyes opened
again, wandered round the room, then fixed
themselves intently on François, as he stood
near the fire. Trying and terrible as his
position was at that moment, Gabriel still
retained self-possession enough to whisper a
few words in Rose's ear. "Go back again
into the bedroom, and take the children with
you," he said. "We may have something to
speak about which you had better not hear."

"Son Gabriel, your grandfather is
trembling all over," said François. "If he is
dying at all, he is dying of cold: help me to
lift him, bed and all, to the hearth."

"No, no! don't let him touch me!" gasped
the old man. "Don't let him look at me in
that way! Don't let him come near me,
Gabriel! Is it his ghost? or is it himself?"

As Gabriel answered, he heard a knocking
at the door. His father opened it; and
disclosed to view some people from the
neighbouring fishing village, who had come—more
out of curiosity than sympathy—to inquire
whether François and the boy, Pierre, had
survived the night. Without asking any one
to enter, the fisherman surlily and shortly
answered the various questions addressed to
him, standing in his own doorway. While
he was thus engaged, Gabriel heard his
grandfather muttering vacantly to himself—"Last
night—how about last night, grandson?
What was I talking about last night? Did I
say your father was drowned? Very foolish
to say he was drowned, and then see him
come back alive again! But it wasn't that—
I'm so weak in my head, I can't remember!