e sweet evening twilight, she walked home from Paimpol, all
along the cliff road inhaling the fresh, comforting sea air. Constant
sitting at needlework had not deformed her like many others, who are
always bent in two over their work--and she drew up her beautiful supple
form perfectly erect in looking over the sea, fairly across to where
Yann was it seemed.

The same road led to his home. Had she walked on much farther, towards
a well-known rocky windswept nook, she would come to that hamlet of
Pors-Even, where the trees, covered with gray moss, grew crampedly
between the stones, and are slanted over lowly by the western gales.
Perhaps she might never more return there, although it was only a league
away; but once in her lifetime she had been there, and that was enough
to cast a charm over the whole road; and, besides, Yann would certainly
often pass that way, and she could fancy seeing him upon the bare moor,
stepping between the stumpy reeds.

She loved the whole region of Ploubazlanec, and was almost happy that
fate had driven her there; she never could have become resigned to live
in any other place.

Towards this end of August, a southern warmth, diffusing languor, rises
and spreads towards the north, with luminous afterglows and stray rays
from a distant sun, which float over the Breton seas. Often the air is
calm and pellucid, without a single cloud on high.

At the hour of Gaud's return journey, all things had already begun to
fade in the nightfall, and become fused into close, compact groups. Here
and there a clump of reeds strove to make way between stones, like a
battle-torn flag; in a hollow, a cluster of gnarled trees formed a
dark mass, or else some straw-thatched hamlet indented the moor. At
the cross-roads the images of Christ on the cross, which watch over and
protect the country, stretched out their black arms on their supports
like real men in torture; in the distance the Channel appeared fair
and calm, one vast golden mirror, under the already darkened sky and
shade-laden horizon.

In this country even the calm fine weather was a melancholy thing;
notwithstanding, a vague uneasiness seemed to hover about; a palpable
dread emanating from the sea to which so many lives are intrusted, and
whose everlasting threat only slumbered.

Gaud sauntered along as in a dream, and never found the way long enough.
The briny smell of the shore, and a sweet odour of flowerets growing
along the cliffs amid thor