ere was no doubt about its energy; and this, at least, was
consoling. Nothing is more annoying than your uncertain morning, when
you don't know whether to start or stay at home. On these occasions,
whichever you do turns out a mistake.

But the following day our patience was rewarded by bright sunshine and
blue skies. "The very day for Roscoff," said Madame Hellard; "though I
cannot think why you are determined to pay it a visit. There is
absolutely nothing to see. It is a sad town, and its streets are given
over to melancholy. Of course, you will take St. Pol de Leon on your
way. It is equally quiet, and even less picturesque."

This was not very encouraging, but we have learned to beware of other
people's opinions: they often praise what is worthless, and pass over
delights and treasures in absolute silence.

So, remembering this, we entered the hotel omnibus with our sketching
materials and small cameras, and struggled up the hill to the railway
station and the level of the huge viaduct.

On our way we passed the abode of our refined and interesting
antiquarian. He was standing at his door, the same patient look upon his
beautiful face, the same resigned attitude. He caught sight of us and
woke up out of a reverie. His spirit always seemed taking some far-off
flight.

"Ces messieurs are not leaving?" he cried, for we passed slowly and
close to him. There was evidence of slight anxiety or disappointment in
his tone; the crucifix yet hung on his walls, and H.C.'s mind still
hovered in the balance.

"No," we replied. "We are going to Roscoff, and shall be back to-night."

"Roscoff? It is lovely," he said. "I know you will like it. But it is
very quiet, and only appeals to the artistic temperament. You will see
few shops there; no antiquarians; and the people are stupid. Still, the
place is remarkable."

The omnibus passed on and we were soon steaming away from Morlaix.

It was a desperately slow train. The surrounding country was not very
interesting, but the journey, fortunately, was short. As we passed the
celebrated St. Pol de Leon on the way, we decided to take it first.
Roscoff was the terminus, and appeared like the ends of the earth at the
very extreme point of land, jutting into the sea and looking out upon
the English Channel. If vision could have reached so far, we might have
seen the opposite English coast, and peered right into Plymouth Sound;
where, the last time that we climbed its heights straig