owed
were mild and cloudy as those of a day in Spring. The inmates of Les
Casquets Cottage ate their humble Christmas dinner of a small piece
of beef and a rough kind of raisin pudding; then Jean and his wife
composed themselves to the unusual luxury of an afternoon sleep.
Ellenor was too restless to stay at home. She wandered over the
cliffs and insensibly she made, at last, for the Haunted House.

She threw herself on the grass at the back of the grim, gaunt
building, and she tried to collect the miserable, wandering thoughts
which were forever haunting her--thoughts of Dominic and Blaisette.
All at once, a musical whistle startled her, and Le Mierre himself
came up the cliff, a fish basket slung over his shoulder.

"You here, Ellenor!" he cried, sitting down beside her, "on
Christmas Day and all alone! Where, then, are all your beaux?"

"You know quite well I've got none, and don't want none, Monsieur,"
she replied sulkily.

"Come, come, do you expect me to believe that of a pretty girl like
you?"

"Pretty!" she echoed scornfully, "it's your Blaisette Simon that's
as pretty as a wax doll. It isn't me, Monsieur, with my black
looks!"

He laughed and put his arm round her. At his touch she trembled and
a lovely colour rose in her pale face. Then, with slow, and as if
involuntary, movement, her head nestled against his shoulder.

"That's right!" he said, "now you are a sensible girl. Let's be
happy while we can. So you call Blaisette _mine_, do you! What a
foolish Ellenor to be jealous of her. She's quite different from
you, can't you see that she doesn't set a man's blood on fire like
you do, witch?"

"That's all very well, Monsieur, but you told father to the _veille_
that I would make a good servant and he thought perhaps you would
wish to engage me for when you marry Blaisette, and I saw you with
her on the _jonquiere_!"

"Well, _sorciere_, is it that I must speak only to you? And what if
I _do_ marry Blaisette?"

With a quick look into his amused eyes, she lifted her head from his
shoulder and withdrew from his careless embrace. But it was only for
a moment. In abandonment of grief and devotion she flung herself
against his breast.

"I don't care," she sobbed, "if you marry Blaisette! I don't care
if, even, I come to be your servant, but, for the sake of God, love
me the best."

He smiled triumphantly over her hidden face and lightly kissed her
dark hair.

"Good, there you shew sense! But, tell