was, but I
tried to speak loudly enough for him to hear me thank him.

I was very thankful when the first gleam of daylight shone into my room.
It seemed to bring clearness to my brain.

"Mam'zelle," said Tardif, coming to my side very early in his
fisherman's dress, "I am going to fetch a doctor."

"But it is Sunday," I answered faintly. I knew that no boatman put out
to sea willingly on a Sunday from Sark; and the last fatal accident,
being on a Sunday, had deepened their reluctance.

"It will be right, mam'zelle," he answered, with glowing eyes. "I have
no fear."

"Do not be long away, Tardif," I said, sobbing.

"Not one moment longer than I can help," he replied.

PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

DR. MARTIN DOBREE.

My name is Martin Dobree. Martin or Doctor Martin I was called
throughout Guernsey. It will be necessary to state a few particulars
about my family and position, before I proceed with my part of this
narrative.

My father was Dr. Dobree. He belonged to one of the oldest families in
the island--a family of distinguished _pur sang_; but our branch of it
had been growing poorer instead of richer during the last three or four
generations. We had been gravitating steadily downward.

My father lived ostensibly by his profession, but actually upon the
income of my cousin, Julia Dobree, who had been his ward from her
childhood. The house we dwelt in, a pleasant one in the Grange, belonged
to Julia; and fully half of the year's household expenses were defrayed
by her. Our practice, which he and I shared between us, was not a large
one, though for its extent it was lucrative enough. But there always is
an immense number of medical men in Guernsey in proportion to its
population, and the island is healthy. There was small chance for any of
us to make a fortune.

Then how was it that I, a young man, still under thirty, was wasting my
time, and skill, and professional training, by remaining there, a sort
of half pensioner on my cousin's bounty? The thickest rope that holds a
vessel, weighing scores of tons, safely to the pier-head is made up of
strands so slight that almost a breath will break them.

First, then--and the strength of two-thirds of the strands lay
there--was my mother. I could never remember the time when she had not
been delicate and ailing, even when I was a rough school-boy at
Elizabeth College. It was that infirmity of the body which occasionally
betrays the wo