ive to Gaud, and so funny were
they that they were greeted with a general burst of laughter, when
they appeared as the last lot. But the sailors laughed, not for want of
heart, but only through thoughtlessness.

To conclude, the bags were sold, and the buyer immediately struck out
the name on them to substitute his own.

A careful sweep of the broom was afterward given to clear the
scrupulously clean deck of the dust and odds and ends, while the sailors
returned merrily to play with their parrots and monkeys.

CHAPTER V--THE DEATH-BLOW

One day, in the first fortnight of June, as old Yvonne was returning
home, some neighbours told her that she had been sent for by the
Commissioner from the Naval Registry Office. Of course it concerned her
grandson, but that did not frighten her in the least. The families of
seafarers are used to the Naval Registry, and she, the daughter, wife,
mother, and grandmother of seamen, had known that office for the past
sixty years.

Doubtless it had to do with his "delegation"; or perhaps there was a
small prize-money account from _La Circe_ to take through her proxy. As
she knew what respect was due to "_Monsieur le Commissaire_," she put on
her best gown and a clean white cap, and set out about two o'clock.

Trotting along swiftly on the pathways of the cliff, she neared Paimpol;
and musing upon these two months without letters, she grew a bit
anxious.

She met her old sweetheart sitting out at his door. He had greatly aged
since the appearance of the winter cold.

"Eh, eh! When you're ready, you know, don't make any ceremony, my
beauty!" That "suit of deal" still haunted his mind.

The joyous brightness of June smiled around her. On the rocky heights
there still grew the stunted reeds with their yellow blossoms; but
passing into the hollow nooks sheltered against the bitter sea winds,
one met with high sweet-smelling grass. But the poor old woman did not
see all this, over whose head so many rapid seasons had passed, which
now seemed as short as days.

Around the crumbling hamlet with its gloomy walls grew roses, pinks,
and stocks; and even up on the tops of the whitewashed and mossy roofs,
sprang the flowerets that attracted the first "miller" butterflies of
the season.

This spring-time was almost without love in the land of Icelanders,
and the beautiful lasses of proud race, who sat out dreaming on their
doorsteps, seemed to look far beyond the visible things with their