old lips and unflinching eyes
smiled back their thanks.

"Listen to me well, Jean," he went on earnestly. "Marie-Louise is very
dear to me. I love the little girl. All her life she has lived with
me--for two years after she was born in this house here, her mother and
Rene and I--and two years more with Rene and I--and then, after that,
it was just Marie-Louise and I alone. She had no one else--and I had
no one else. I have taught her as the _bon Dieu_ has shown me the way
to teach her to be a true daughter of France--to love God and be never
afraid. Jean"--he reached out his other hand suddenly and clasped it
over Jean's--"do you love Marie-Louise?"

"Yes," said Jean simply.

"She will be alone now," said Gaston, and his eyes filled. "She is a
good girl, Jean. She is pure and innocent, and her heart is so full of
love, there was never such love as hers, and she is so gay and bright
like the flowers and like the birds--and happy--and sorrow has not come
to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face
as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again,
"do you love Marie-Louise?"

Jean's lips were quivering now.

"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her."

The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept
pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with
more of an effort.

"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers--it is her
_dot_. But it is not of that, I fear--it is not of that--" his voice
died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on
his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now,
"do you love Marie-Louise?"

"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life."

"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then,
Jean--she is a gift to you from the sea--from the sea to-night. She
loves you, Jean--she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?"

The tears were in Jean's eyes.

"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly.

"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and
his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again
its old rugged strength. "Ay--I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean!
To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there,
swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to
her."

"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in