of that monsieur le duc who had come fishing to St. Saviour's
a few years before. He thought that if her hair was let down it would
probably reach to her waist, and maybe to her ankles. She had none of
the plump, mellow softness of the beauties he had seen in the Basque
country. She was a slim and long limbed Diana, with fine lines and a
bosom of extreme youth, though she must have been twenty-one her last
birthday. The gown she wore was a dark green well-worn velvet, which
seemed of too good a make and quality for her class; and there was no
decoration about her anywhere, save at the ears, where two drops of gold
hung on little links an inch and a half long.

Jean Jacques Barbille's eyes took it all in with that observation of
which he was so proud and confident, and rested finally on the drops of
gold at her ears. Instinctively he fingered the heavy gold watch-chain
he had bought in Paris to replace the silver chain with a little
crucifix dangling, which his father and even his great-grandfather had
worn before him. He had kept the watch, however--the great fat-bellied
thing which had never run down in a hundred years. It was his mascot.
To lose that watch would be like losing his share in the promises of the
Church. So his fingers ran along the new gold-fourteen-carat-chain, to
the watch at the end of it; and he took it out a little ostentatiously,
since he saw that the eyes of the girl were on him. Involuntarily he
wished to impress her.

He might have saved himself the trouble. She was impressed. It was quite
another matter however, whether he would have been pleased to know that
the impression was due to his resemblance to a Spanish conspirator,
whose object was to destroy the Monarchy and the Church, as had been the
object of the middle-aged conspirator--the girl's father--who had the
good fortune to escape from justice. It is probable that if Jean Jacques
had known these facts, his story would never have been written, and he
would have died in course of time with twenty children and a seat in the
legislature; for, in spite of his ardent devotion to philosophy and its
accompanying rationalism, he was a devout monarchist and a child of the
Church.

Sad enough it was that, as he shifted his glance from the watch, which
ticked loud enough to wake a farmhand in the middle of the day, he found
those Spanish eyes which had been so lost in studying him. In the glow
and glisten of the evening sun setting on the shores