e was a Catholic, unlike Jean and most people
of her class in Jersey, and ever since that night he kissed her she had
told an extra bead on her rosary and said another prayer.

These were the reasons why at first she was inclined to resent Guida's
laughter. But when she saw that Maitre Ranulph and the curate and Jean
himself laughed, she settled down to a grave content until they landed.

They had scarce reached the deserted chapel where their dinner was to be
cooked by Maitresse Aimable, when Ranulph called them to note a vessel
bearing in their direction.

"She's not a coasting craft," said Jean.

"She doesn't look like a merchant vessel," said Ranulph, eyeing her
through his telescope. "Why, she's a warship!" he added.

Jean thought she was not, but Maitre Ranulph said "Pardi, I ought to
know, Jean. Ship-building is my trade, to say nothing of guns--I wasn't
two years in the artillery for nothing. See the low bowsprit and the
high poop. She's bearing this way. She'll be Narcissus!" he said slowly.

That was Philip d'Avranche's ship.

Guida's face lighted, her heart beat faster. Ranulph turned on his heel.

"Where are you going, Ro?" Guida said, taking a step after him.

"On the other side, to my men and the wreck," he said, pointing.

Guida glanced once more towards the man-o'-war: and then, with mischief
in her eye, turned towards Jean. "Suppose," she said to him archly,
"suppose the ship should want to come in, of course you'd remember your
onc' 'Lias, and say, 'A bi'tot, good-bye!"'

An evasive "Ah bah!" was the only reply Jean vouchsafed.

Ranulph joined his men at the wreck, and the Reverend Lorenzo Dow went
about the Lord's business in the little lean-to of sail-cloth and ship's
lumber which had been set up near to the toil of the carpenters. When
the curate entered the but the sick man was in a doze. He turned his
head from side to side restlessly and mumbled to himself. The curate,
sitting on the ground beside the man, took from his pocket a book, and
began writing in a strange, cramped hand. This book was his journal.
When a youth he had been a stutterer, and had taken refuge from talk
in writing, and the habit stayed even as his affliction grew less. The
important events of the day or the week, the weather, the wind, the
tides, were recorded, together with sundry meditations of the Reverend
Lorenzo Dow. The pages were not large, and brevity was Mr. Dow's
journalistic virtue. Beyond the diligent