right, when one morning, about six o'clock, when
Peter was out getting up his lobster pots, Louise, with her head still
buried in the bed-clothes, suddenly heard--or thought she heard--the
sound again. She started up and listened: there could be no doubt about
it; someone was approaching the cottage at the back--some one who was
lame. She hurried on some clothes and looked out of the door (the cabin
had no window). In the glittering morning light, the expanse of level
shore and common was as desolate as ever. She turned the corner of the
cottage to the left, where Jenny and the pigs were. There was no one
there; then she went round to the right, and, as she did so, distinctly
perceived a shadow vanishing swiftly round the corner of the stack of
sea-weed. She uttered a cry, and for a moment seemed like one paralysed;
then moved forward hastily a few steps; stopped again, listening with a
strange expression on her countenance to the sound of the limp, as it
grew fainter and fainter; then advanced, as if unwillingly, to the back
of the cottage, whence no one was visible. A corner of rock, round which
wound the path that ascended to the top of the cliff, projected at no
great distance from the cottage. She stood and looked at the rock, half
as if it were a threatening, monster, half as if it were the door of
hope: then she went slowly back to the cottage.

She did not tell Peter this time about the step.

A week or two afterwards, when Peter Girard was returning from the rocks
with a basketful of crabs, he was joined on the way by his mate,
Mesurier.

The two fishermen trudged along in silence for some time, one a little
in front of the other, after the manner of their kind; then Mesurier
remarked, "We shall be wanting some new line before we go out for
mackerel again." (Mackerel are caught by lines in those parts, where the
sea-bottom is too rocky for trawling).

Peter turned round and stood still to consider the question.

"I've got some strands knotted, if you and I set to work we can plait it
before night."

"I must go up to Jean's for some bait first; there won't be more than
three hours left before dark, and how are we to get it done in that
time? I'd better get some in the village when I'm up there."

"Hout, man! pay eight shillings for a line," said the economical Peter,
"and a pound of horsehair will make six. I'll send Louise for the bait,
and you come along with me--we'll soon reckon out the plait."

Mes