say something of thy vow; well, look at it,thy vow! Hast thou not observed it well? I tell thee, yes. Thou gavest up thy happiness once, and thou madest thy husband happy while he lived; I know thy life at Tréport, and how thou wast always gentle and uncomplaining and kind, till even thy husband's relations were forced to love thee! Now, when the bon Dieu has made Pierre faithful to thee still, and offers thee again some happiness, is it thou who must say 'no'? If thou thinkest of thy evil luck, and that thou wilt bring it on Pierre, ma foi! I don't understand that. Look a little,- Pierre is what one may call rich, I tell thee. He has money in Dieppe, he is first mate of his ship, he has never had a bad voyage since the first two, and he cares as much for the Widow Milette and her daughter as ever; 'I have observed that' (with some asperity of tone), as well as Marie Bignard! Thou art no longer 'Milette,' but the Widow Coutelenq, as good a name as Robbe or Bignard, for example; and, if we call thee 'Milette,' still, it is because we like the old name better. Eh bien! I will tell thee one thing more. Thou hast done thy duty to all, to thy mother, to thy husband, to me, always, Épiphanie; but there remains still one whom thou hast wronged; je le dit whom thou hast made to suffer, whom thou hast caused to put himself in danger instead of staying tranquilly at home. It is necessary to make this one amends, and who is this? It is Pierre Lennet!"

Épiphanie smiled. "It sounds like Monsieur le Curé, when he gives one advice," she said, "to hear thee talk. Thou art always so strong and sure about everything; thou always usedst as a child to speak out, and wast always ready to do things that the others held back from out of fear."

"Ah!" said Jeanne, with a sigh, "there's no great good comes of quick words or quick deeds after all. You should be sure you want to get there before you jump into a hole, because changing your mind when you are down at the bottom is poor work, to

my thinking. Look, Épiphanie, there is Dieppe," and she pointed to eastward, where a sudden bend in the line of cliffs showed them a glimpse of the harbor. In another moment the towers of the Citadelle rose above the cliffs, and the sudden clash of bells borne fitfully on the wind met them, and proclaimed that they neared the town.

Marie Robbe, who had diplomatically walked an extra mile to accomplish her object, now mounted the donkey, and rode on triumphantly in front; glancing demurely from under her dark lashes at the crowds that filled the streets, and were now already streaming into the great church of St. Jacques.

CHAPTER VIII.

AND now the little company began to separate, some to visit their friends in the different quarters of the city where they were to spend the day; others to the market-place to do their business before church-time; and the more devout going at once into the church, to spend the time before service in visiting the shrines to the Madonne de Bon Secours and St. Jacques, or to place a votive candle before the shrine of the entombment, an ancient and rude carving in stone, representing the group of mourning women and disciples at the tomb. These figures stand within a deep recess, in a sombre nook near the entrance of the church. They are enclosed, in front, by an iron grating, through which the people pass by a little gate; and, after placing their candles on an iron frame, not unlike an upturned harrow, that stands before the shrine, the votaries may meditate on this ancient and sacred scene of sorrow till their own troubles become ennobled by the fellowship or lessened by the contrast.

Épiphanie Milette was one of these votaries, and left Jeanne at the marketplace, going herself at once to the church. Marie Robbe accompanied Jeanne as far as the end of the narrow street where lived her uncle, the ivory

carver; and Jeanne, as she mounted her donkey once more, looking back, saw her arranging her dress with a face of much discontent at the clouds of dust that were driving along the

street.

Jean Farge, at whose house Jeanne was to stay the night, lived in the Pollet, - an ancient part of the town separated from the rest of Dieppe by the intervening harbor and dock. In the Pollet still linger some of the primitive customs of ancient Normandy, nowhere else to be found. The Polletais are a bold, free people, who love the sea, and have held to their own ways with a tenacity that perhaps more strongly than anything else bears witness to their Scandinavian blood. They still pride themselves on their ancient title of Loups de Mer, - a title most likely handed down from their ancestors, those veritable sea-wolves, who, sweeping southward from the far away northern forests and rocky shores of Denmark, came down upon the fair coasts of Normandy, and, stealing up the rivers in their black ships, burned and plundered town and village, and drove the miserable inhabitants before them like panic-stricken sheep.

Perhaps there is not in history a more wonderful tale than this of Normandy, the story of the first coming of those turbulent sea robbers, those square-browed and yellow-haired Vikings, who, in their fierce and invincible strength, seem to make credible the stories of the Skalds and the superhuman heroes of the Niebelungenlied. They spread over the land, and kept it with the hard grasp of men who could hold as well as win, who could be princes and rulers as well as conquerors and robbers. Then they were gradually softened and ennobled under this sweeter sky, and the dew and sunshine of the Christian faith. Their enterprise and strength and daring had found a new channel; and then rose the noble churches of Rouen, Chartres, and Caen, and an order of knights, who seemed to carry victory and empire before them. When Guaimar, prince of Sa

lerno, and his trembling subjects, were ready to submit to the demands of the haughty Saracens, who besieged his gates, forty Norman pilgrims, who happened to be at the time within the walls, entreated to be allowed to have horses and arms, and liberty to go forth and chastise these insolent pagans. The request was eagerly granted, the gates thrown open, and the band of Normans, like a thunderbolt, descended on the foe. The Saracens, amazed by the furious and unexpected onslaught, fled tumultuously; and the Pilgrims returned to lay down their arms and take up their weeds once more. When Guaimar would have loaded them with presents, they rejected them with scorn: "For the love of God and of the Christian faith," they said, "we have done what we have done; and we can neither accept of wages for such service nor delay our return to our homes." Some say, however, that the Polletais' title to Loup de Mer has no such historic meaning, but is simply another name for "Seals,”—an appellation which they can certainly claim at this day as entirely characteristic. They love the sea, and follow the seaman's craft with an undivided heart. No Polletais was ever known to be anything but fisherman or sailor, and the best pilots on the coast are found among them.

There is usually some solemnity in the taking up of the hereditary craft, for, before a young man goes his first independent voyage, he is presented by his mother or sister with a new fishingnet, the work of her own hands. This net is his sole capital. His family and neighbors accompany him down to his boat, and there embracing him, and calling down upon him the blessing of God, and the protecting care of St. James, they send him forth upon the sea, which they neither fear nor regard with distrust.

If, on a pleasant summer's evening, about dusk, you walk along the wharfside of the Pollet, passing the rows of quaint gabled houses that open on the quay, you may see many a picturesque

group sitting in the doorway; the women in their white caps and brightcolored petticoats, knitting, or, shuttle in hand, weaving fishing-nets, as the children play about the pavement, gabbling in the queer Pollet dialect, which ignores the double letters and all j's and g's, and gives a soft and flowing sound to their speech not unlike Italian, and thus does a little to strengthen the theory held by some fantastic antiquarians, that the Pollet is the remains of a Venetian settlement. On the benches by the doorways sit groups of men, smoking and talking, whose dress if it be Sunday or holiday is worth the seeing. It consists of a velvet cap, ornamented with embroideries in silver thread; a vest of blue cloth, also embroidered, and with large buttons; breeches laced at the knee, silk stockings, and low shoes with silver clasps. A little later sounds the curfew, and before it has done ringing the streets become silent and deserted; a light here and there twinkles in the windows, supper is over, the prayer said, and the Pollet by a little after nine is abed. At the corner of a narrow street, as the darkness deepens, glimmers the feeble light of a yellow candle burning at the feet of the Madonna, placed there by some devout Polletais. The sea breaks on the shingly beach below the cliff, the lights of the town twinkle across the harbor, the wind sighs pleasantly through the many masts in the dock, and so the Pollet sleeps till morning.

They tell you strange stories in the Pollet. There it was that I first heard the story of the little wren, that sings on Christmas eve and proclaims the Nativity. Another tale of this kind I heard one day, as I sat sheltered from a pelting shower in a fisherman's cottage, watching through the open doorway the rain sweeping down between me and the masts in the dock, and the rifts of blue sky that widened and widened over the gables of the town as the storm cleared. I asked the fisherman's wife-a pretty young woman, who sat knitting as she rocked her child on

"A fine light," she said, "and an excellent guetteur to watch it, without doubt." I had heard of Monsieur Bouzard? - a man of a great courage; the post of watchman to the Dieppe Light had been in his family for more than a hundred years. Old Bouzard, grandfather to the present watchman, (she had often heard her father tell of him,) he had saved one, two, three, four, five, six lives from drowning, - counting them on her fingers with her knittingneedles," he was a swimmer for example!" She had been told that some great king" (Louis XVI.) had called him 'Le brave homme Bouzard'; and the great Napoleon, uncle of our Emperor, had made to be built that house for him and his family forever; and on it one can read of all the people they have saved, and there one may see the medals of gold and silver, and learn all the honor of the family Bouzard. "But what is that?" continues the pleasant little fishwife; "I would not be guetteur for my part. To be always solitary in the wind and darkness on stormy nights; and then the phantom ship,”— with a shudder, "one might die of fear to see that."

"Phantom ship!" I said; "and what is that?"

Mademoiselle had not heard of the phantom ship? that was strange, but strangers can know so little of the true marvels of a place, to be sure!

At my request she told me the story. "On All-Souls' night the watchman on the pier, as he walks there all alone, just after midnight, sees, approaching, a dark ship, with black sails, without light, without sound, but it makes for the harbor. He hails it, but there is no answer; he shouts to those on board the ship to throw the rope; but then,

then while he watches it, — all slowly, slowly it disappears into the darkness, and he hears the sound of cries for help, and those die away into the darkness also, and his very flesh creeps, for"--suddenly leaning forward with her wide brown eyes fixed on my face,

and her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper-"he knows the voices; they are those of the sailors who have been drowned that year!" and the speaker suddenly claps her saboted foot down on the ground, and continues to rock and knit.

It was to one of the houses of the Pollet, then, that Jeanne repaired, after leaving Marie Robbe. Her path lay over the draw-bridge that crosses the dock, and along the wharf, where she had to thread her way among cables, and piles of nets and tackle, that lay about on every side. Her destination was the house of Jean Farge. Jean Farge and his family were old friends of the Deféres; and the quaint little house, built in the side of the cliff, and approached by steps cut in the chalk rock, was always their stopping-place when business or a fete day brought Jeanne or her father to Dieppe. As Jeanne passed along, she saw numbers of fishing-boats running into the harbor, seeking shelter from the storm; for there was no doubt now that the wind was rising, and gave it promise of a rough night. How the wind blew! It came sweeping up from the sea, and roaring into the hollows of the cliffs, said to have been the caves of smugglers in former times, but at present serving for the more innocent, but less interesting, purpose of storing herring-barrels, old spars, and disabled rowing-boats;-it came blustering down the wharf, sending a cloud of dust before it, and swinging the fishing tackle and nets that hung against the sides of the houses, and rattling the rigging of the ships that lay at anchor in the dock.

Jeanne was glad to turn into the sheltered alley that led to Jean Farge's abode. Fastening her donkey at the foot of the steps, she ascended, and knocked at the door. All were from home but old Madame Farge, who sat at her spinning-wheel in the window looking on to the wharf. She held out her hand to Jeanne, and kissed her somewhat ceremoniously on the forehead. "Que Dieu te benisse, ma fille!" she said.

"Que Dieu vous garde, madame!" replied the young girl, stooping, and kissing the proffered hand.

Madame Farge was a true Polletais; and to-day, though she could not attend the service, she was arrayed in her full holiday attire. She was a little old woman, thin and spare, with a wrinkled, sharp-cut face. "Ai, Jeanne! but thou art somewhat late, ma fille," she said; "thou hast missed the others. It is too stormy for me, and I stay by my spinning-wheel."

"Yes," said Jeanne, "it is bad weather on land, let alone the sea; and my father is out in it too; he started last night, with the tide, at seven o'clock. No doubt but he will put into harbor to-day. I saw the boats running in by the dozen as I came along the wharf."

"Yes, yes, that is what he will do," said Madame Farge; "thy father always was a prudent man, and has had good luck; and that means, ma fille, that he has always had a stout heart and a cool head, and watched which way the wind blew, -eh, Jeanne? It is the fools that have always bad luck, - is it not?"

"Maybe," said Jeanne; "but it is not so easy always to be wise. But," she continued, looking through the little window that commanded a view of the harbor, "the men say it won't be much of a storm, only a blow enough to spoil the fish-haul, but not enough to do much damage.”

"Well, I hope it may," said the old woman; "but I don't like the whistle of the wind in the cliffs; it brings the gulls about, squalling, and they know more about bad weather than the men do, I fancy. I, for my part, never like a stormy fete day, nor dost thou, either, I suppose. When one wears ruban de soie like that on one's bodice," she continued, stooping towards Jeanne, and inspecting her attire, "one does not like rain! Ai! a present from thy Aunt Ducrés, - is it? Ah! she knows what is suitable, to be sure. Thy cousin Gabriel was here last night. How was it you did not come together? He told me something about it, but I for

"No," said Jeanne, "it is time to go now; I don't wish to be late. Épiphanie Milette is waiting for me at the shrine of Notre Dame. Gabriel can come with the other boys."

"Eh bien, ma fille fasten thy donkey in the shed, give him some feed, and return soon."

And Jeanne departed, and walked swiftly along the wharf-side, fearing to meet Gabriel by the way. But she had little cause for such concern. Gabriel was far away, and she was destined to meet him under very different circum- not till the quick anguish of despair of ever seeing him again had shown her that his life was dear to her as her own.

stances,

CHAPTER IX.

MADAME FARGE was right. The gulls did know more about the weather than she or any one else. The wind rose steadily all day, and by afternoon the gleams of light that had brightened the cloudy heavens every now and then during the morning, and given fitful hopes of clearing, had entirely disappeared, and a heavy surging mass of vapor spread sulky and dark from ho rizon to horizon. The rain began in gusty showers, which abated nothing the violence of the wind. The fishingboats came in hour by hour, seeking the shelter of the harbor, unwilling to face the storm that now threatened to last all night. Knots of women, blown about by the wind, stood on the pier, watching the coming in of the boats. Some of them, with still a thought to their holiday dress, sheltered themselves under the lea of the sentry-box that stands by the great crucifix at one end of the pier. The more anxious leaned over the low wall of the pier, and gazed out towards the dark, threatening sea

and sky, or watched the slow approach of the boats, that one by one, struggling and laboring in the heavy sea, made their way towards the mouth of the harbor. From time to time, when the cry of "A boat comes!" was given, the crowd became suddenly animated; the talk rose by a rapid crescendo into

an almost incoherent babel of exclamatory discussion, accompanied by eager gesticulations; and all rushed with one accord to the end of the pier. As the boat entered the narrow mouth of the harbor, the excitement became intensified; all eyes were strained to catch the first sight of the rope thrown out from the vessel by which she was to be towed into dock.

In another moment, with a shrill whir, the rope came, and had scarcely touched the ground when it was seized by the eager crowd, men and women together, who, forming into a double line, to the jubilant clack of their own sabots, trooped along, chattering gayly as they pulled, the women calling shrill welcomes in reply to the shouts of greeting from the men in the boat below.

Jeanne had watched hour by hour for her father's boat in vain. A little before four o'clock the tide had turned, and begun to rise, and by about ten o'clock it would be high tide; and the men predicted that the storm would abate after that, and go down with the falling tide. But there were six anxious hours to pass over before then, and the storm seemed to grow more violent every moment.

"It was possible," reasoned Jeanne, "that her father might have put back into Verangeville, or, if he had got down as far as Tréport, he might have put in there for the night; her father knew how difficult the harbor at Dieppe was, and would most probably choose another." And, in view of all these contingencies, Jeanne consoled Epiphanie, who thought of her brother's evil luck, and looked out on the grim, desolate sea with despair deepening in her eyes every moment. How much Jeanne's own stout heart misgave her as she