him, however. He
told her that his health was good, that the fishing season promised
to be excellent, and that he already had 1500 fish for his share. From
beginning to end, it was written in the simple conventional way of all
these Icelanders' home letters. Men educated like Yann completely ignore
how to write the thousand things they think, feel, or fancy. Being more
cultivated than he, Gaud could understand this, and read between the
lines that deep affection that was unexpressed. Several times in the
four-paged letter, he called her by the title of "wife," as if happy in
repeating the word. And the address above: "_A Madame Marguerite Gaos,
maison Moan, en Ploubazlanec_"--she was "Madame Marguerite Gaos" since
so short a time.

She worked hard during these summer months. The ladies of Paimpol had,
at first, hardly believed in her talent as an amateur dressmaker,
saying her hands were too fine-ladyish; but they soon perceived that
she excelled in making dresses that were very nice-fitting, so she had
become almost a famous dressmaker.

She spent all her earnings in embellishing their home against his
return. The wardrobe and old-shelved beds were all done up afresh, waxed
over, and bright new fastenings put on; she had put a pane of glass into
their little window towards the sea, and hung up a pair of curtains;
and she had bought a new counterpane for the winter, with new chairs and
table.

She had kept the money untouched that her Yann had left her, carefully
put by in a small Chinese box, to show him when he returned. During the
summer evenings, by the fading light, she sat out before the cottage
door with Granny Moan, whose head was much better in the warm weather,
and knitted a fine new blue wool jersey for her Yann; round the collar
and cuffs were wonderful open-work embroideries. Granny Yvonne had been
a very clever knitter in her day, and now she taught all she knew to
Gaud. The work took a great deal of wool; for it had to be a large
jersey to fit Yann.

But soon, especially in the evenings, the shortening of the days could
be perceived. Some plants, which had put forth all their blossoms in
July, began to look yellow and dying, and the violet scabious by the
wayside bloomed for the second time, smaller now, and longer-stalked;
the last days of August drew nigh, and the first return-ship from
Iceland hove in sight one evening at the cape of Pors-Even. The feast of
the returners began.

Every one press