she found Granny Moan crouching in a corner with her head
held between her hands, sobbing with her childish "he, he!" her hair
dishevelled and falling from beneath her cap like thin skeins of gray
hemp.

"Oh, my kind Gaud! I've just met young Gaos down by Plouherzel as I came
back from my wood-gathering; we spoke of our poor lad, of course. They
arrived this morning from Iceland, and in the afternoon he came over to
see me while I was out. Poor lad, he had tears in his eyes, too. He came
right up to my door, my kind Gaud, to carry my little fagot."

She listened, standing, while her heart seemed almost to break; so this
visit of Yann's, upon which she had so much relied for saying so many
things, was already over, and would doubtless not occur again. It
was all done. Her poor heart seemed more lonely than ever. Her misery
harder, and the world more empty; and she hung her head with a wild
desire to die.

CHAPTER XIV--THE GRANDAM BREAKING UP

Slowly the winter drew nigh, and spread over all like a shroud leisurely
drawn. Gray days followed one another, but Yann appeared no more, and
the two women lived on in their loneliness. With the cold, their daily
existence became harder and more expensive.

Old Yvonne was difficult to tend, too; her poor mind was going. She got
into fits of temper now, and spoke wicked, insulting speeches once or
twice every week; it took her so, like a child, about mere nothings.

Poor old granny! She was still so sweet in her lucid days, that Gaud did
not cease to respect and cherish her. To have always been so good and
to end by being bad, and show towards the close a depth of malice and
spitefulness that had slumbered during her whole life, to use a whole
vocabulary of coarse words that she had hidden; what mockery of the
soul! what a derisive mystery! She began to sing, too, which was still
more painful to hear than her angry words, for she mixed everything up
together--the _oremus_ of a mass with refrains of loose songs heard in
the harbour from wandering sailors. Sometimes she sang "_Les Fillettes
de Paimpol_" (The Lasses of Paimpol), or, nodding her head and beating
time with her foot, she would mutter:

"Mon mari vient de partir; Pour la peche d'Islande, mon mari vient de
partir, Il m'a laissee sans le sou, Mais--trala, trala la lou, J'en
gagne, j'en gagne."

(My husband went off sailing Upon the Iceland cruise, But never left me
money, Not e'en a couple sous. But--ri too loo