sette had almost canonized her: and she, who
had been in life, a pretty weak doll, was enshrined in all hearts as
a martyr to her husband's brutality. So often does death enrich and
enlarge our limited outlook.

It was the evening of the first Sunday in Lent. Jean Cartier, his
wife, Mrs. Corbet and Perrin had been to church at Saint Pierre du
Bois. It was dark as they entered the parish of Torteval, and Jean
said in an anxious voice,

"I suppose Ellenor has left Les Casquets by now?"

His wife nudged him as if to say he had betrayed a secret: but it
was too late. Mrs. Corbet's gentle voice asked, in great curiosity,
where Ellenor was going at this time of night.

"To _Les Brandons_, on Pleinmont," said Jean bluntly. "We didn't
like it. But as for me, I've not got the heart to refuse her
nothing, since we nearly lost her with the small-pox--poor child!"

The women echoed his deep sigh: and Perrin said quickly,

"Look here! I'm off to _Les Brandons_ too! Then I can look after
her! Don't wait up for me, mother."

"Very well. But, tell me, Jean. Will Le Mierre be there? Has she met
him since his return from Jersey?"

"He will be there, for certain," broke in Perrin. "And, for certain,
she has not see him yet. She told me so herself. _Adi, then, toute
la compagnie._"

He swung along and was soon out of sight. The high road of Torteval
was thronged with people who, for the most part, carried lanterns.
He hurried past, not speaking to a soul. Presently he had reached
his home, and, turning sharply round the corner of the little
garden, he found himself in a lane which ended in a cart rut and
brought him out to the moorland of Pleinmont and close to the
Haunted House.

The sky was thick with stars, which flashed like silver bonfires in
the blackness of the night. A fresh breeze swept over the gorze
bushes of the moorland and blew into yellow and red streamers the
sheet of flame that rose from a huge bonfire which was built in a
direct line inland from the Haunted House. The sea, below the
precipitous cliffs, moaned and sighed, and, far off, in the
distance, could be heard the murmur of the deep seas. Shouts of
laughter and merry voices, scraps of folk song and impromptu
dancing, came from the throng of people scattered over the moorland
and gathered round the bonfire.

Most of the girls of the company wore masks, rough, crude affairs,
which, however, effectually concealed their faces. These masked
girls were to