o up to see the patient he
dreaded so horribly, for Perrin took him by the arm and did not
leave him till he had landed him in the sick room. Then the
fisherman sought out Le Mierre, and the coward and scoundrel tried
to hold his own. But Perrin's threats of appeal to the Royal Court
awed him into a promise to give out money to pay for the expenses of
his wife's illness. Corbet, himself utterly fearless of disease,
frightened the drunkard into further dread of the house: and Ellenor
had it all her own way. But it was of no avail. Pretty, frail
Blaisette could not battle with a terrible illness, neglected at the
very first; and two days after Perrin came to Lihou, she died,
without a look or a sign.

There was no thought of taking her poor body across to the other
island for burial in the sweet quiet churchyard of Saint Pierre du
Bois. She was laid to rest in a grave dug hastily in a corner beside
a dark boulder. No hymns were sung over her. Only the grey sea
moaned and the wind sighed, as her rough coffin was lowered into the
grave. No messenger, mounted on a black horse, bore the news of her
death from house to house, up and down the two parishes. Only a poor
fisherman repeated the sad tidings as he trudged, first to
Colomberie Farm and then to Orvilliere, where Dominic's aunt kept
house in state while her graceless nephew was away. No _Messieurs_
of distinguished Torteval families were honoured bearers, but a good
man and a bad man had carried her coffin to the dark place of
burial. No weird feasting followed the unconsecrated ceremony: only
Dominic took refuge from sickening terror in a drunken bout.

But Perrin stood long beside her grave: and prayed for the poor
little woman so soon to be left alone in the island, henceforth to
be haunted by her sad spirit.

An hour after Blaisette's burial, Ellenor fainted while she was
making preparations for leaving the house. Perrin, guessing what
would follow, rowed her across to the main island, as soon as she
was able. His mother had returned to her home, and Jean and poor
weak Mrs. Cartier prepared to nurse their child through an attack of
small-pox. The doctor shook his head. It was a particularly bad
case, he said, and it was doubtful if he could save Ellenor.

CHAPTER VII.

"So you've made up your mind to lose her, Perrin?" said Mrs. Corbet,
as she and her son were at supper one spring evening.

"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. Ellenor isn't a girl