t was winter, always a time for enjoyment in the days of old Guernsey, when evening after evening, people met together at the Veilles, to knit and sing and to tell stories of witchcraft and weird tales of the sea.

Colomberie Farm was glowing with warmth and light, and swarming with company on the evening of the twenty-first of December, for it was the special festival of longue veille. The spotless wooden table in the middle of the sanded floor was piled high with woollen goods of every kind, which had been knitted by men and women at former veilles. The dark blue of "jerseys" and "guernseys" were an effective background for stacks of white woollen stockings and scarlet caps.

"My good," said Mrs. Cartier, of Les Casquets Cottage, "there's never yet bin so many things for the Christmas Eve market! It's that we must have worked well! What do you say, mesdames?"

A torrent of agreement, poured out in Norman-French, swallowed up her small pipe; and Mesdames from all the countryside gathered closer round the table to inspect the good work and pack it up for transmission to market. Mesdames were comely and rosy, excellent and thrifty housewives, delighted at the thought of the gold and silver that the warm cosy garments represented.

The men of the company stood idly by, flirting and smoking and provoking giggles and pretty foolish speeches from the girls, who queened it openly on these occasions. Even the elderly men, seated on wooden stools in the deep recess of the wide chimney, turned their withered nut-cracker faces from the glow of the vraicq fire, to smile leniently on "les jeunes gens."

A few serious groups of born story-tellers and eager listeners sat on the floor where the flickering light of the crÂsset shadowed and then brightened the healthy beauty of the girls and the warm tan of fishermen's faces. Everybody was happy, and gaiety and laughter held the night.

But to one girl, joy meant so much that she had crept away with it to the dark staircase, spiral and stone, that rose from the wide entry to the top of the house. She sat on the third step from the floor, and from her position she commanded a full view of half the kitchen. Her eyes, deep and dark with excitement, yet almost blinding in their gaze of rapture, rested on the face of Dominic Le Mierre who sat on the jonquiÈre in the corner of the hearth. He was alone and appeared to be absorbed in watching the group of story-tellers under the crÂsset. His sombre handsome face wore an expression of extreme boredom. He had said, a few moments ago to Ellenor Cartier, the girl on the stairs, that he detested the veilles, but that he was bound to be present, as master of OrvilliÈre Farm. He had added, moreover, a remark that had flooded Ellenor's heart with the joy that had caused her to creep away by herself into the darkness.

It was her presence, he assured her, with a stare into her trusting eyes, that drew him to Colomberie Farm to-night, otherwise he would have been out fishing beyond Pleinmont Point. Dominic had chuckled to himself many times during the past months when he reviewed his position towards Ellenor. Since the meeting in the Haunted House, he had seen her not a few times, and he had rivetted round her a chain which linked her closely to himself. He had exerted the masterful fascination which was his to bring her completely under his power. Love is a stronger motive than even hate. He made Ellenor love him that he might be sure she would keep secret his dealings with smugglers. He felt absolutely certain that if once she cared for him she would be loyal, even to death. Therefore he fanned the flame of the liking she had openly avowed into a wide spreading blaze, which might burn up her peace and contentment, for all he cared, he said to himself, with a derisive laugh.

In spite of scorn and derision, however, he felt an interest in her which was quite foreign to his selfish and exploiting nature. With admirable perseverance he crushed every rising of this interest and stamped it under foot. But it proved strangely unconquerable, and it rose again and again, vital and conflicting, to taunt him with its indestructibility. He certainly could not have told himself why he liked to meet this girl so often on the sly and why he liked to kiss her red lips and make her eyes shine into his. But the fact that he did like the meetings and did look forward to the kisses, was quite a dominant factor in his life. Still, these things were apart: ambition, money, reputation were more to the master of OrvilliÈre Farm than all the girls in creation. He had not the slightest intention of marrying a peasant girl, but he did intend to have a rich well-born wife—a pretty one, if possible.

As he sat on the jonquiÈre, he watched keenly, in a business-like spirit, the gay gestures and pretty dimples of Blaisette Simon, who was the most eager listener of the story-telling group. He had often thought of her as a possible wife. But she was such a universal flirt, that, hitherto, he had received no special encouragement. To-night, however, he felt inclined to exert the full power of attraction which he was quite capable of appreciating and using. All women, whether they avow it or not, love to find their master and bend to him; and Dominic was of the very essence of virility. Indeed, one outspoken girl of Torteval parish said she would rather be beaten by Le Mierre than be kissed by a man all gentleness and kindness.

In a few minutes, Blaisette had left the story-tellers and joined Dominic on the jonquiÈre. She had not the faintest idea how it was she had risen to go to him, but his welcome was of the most delightful, his voice was tender and deep, his eye spoke eloquently of her beauty. Blaisette had never known him in such a compelling mood. Her foolish, weak little head was turned; his gross flattery was nectar to her greedy vanity. He was generally so taciturn, so cold, so aloof. And Blaisette plumed herself on being the cause of this wonderful unbending of his. By supper time they had advanced into the thick of a serious flirtation: and more than one person remarked on the absorbed couple on the jonquiÈre.

Of course Ellenor saw it all, at first with unconcern, then with growing alarm. The rapture died out of her face, which stiffened into tragic lines of misery and jealousy. Every blush and pretty gesture of Blaisette's called forth a new expression in the large clear eyes of the watcher on the stairs. Hitherto it had not entered into her head that Dominic might make her his wife; but, likewise, she had never yet pictured a Madame OrvilliÈre who would take up the master's time and prevent the stolen meetings that were so dear to her. Now, as she watched Dominic's marked attentions to Blaisette, as she saw him, more than once, lay his hand on hers, she realized the meaning of the scene in the chimney corner. He would marry the rich girl. She turned sick and giddy with jealousy. Rising, she groped her way into the garden, and, without cloak or hat, she ran down the quiet lanes and along the high road to the moorland of Pleinmont, where her little home received her with its homely air of comfort. She crept up to her attic bedroom, and when her father and mother returned home, she would give no account of her sudden disappearance from the veille.

"I've brought your cloak and hat," whined Mrs. Cartier, "you must be mad to go home without them! But, there, one never knows what you will do next."

"Leave the girl alone," broke in the father's voice, "she was tired out, she had done the best part of the packing up—it was Blaisette herself told us that. And, Monsieur Le Mierre, he said you were a hard-working girl and would make a good servant, if I'd let you go out. He laughed when he said this, did Monsieur, and it's my belief he'll marry Blaisette before long. It looks as if they meant to keep company. Well, good-night, my girl! I must be off fishing in an hour!"

Christmas Day, not in the least typical, dawned over the heights of Pleinmont in pale gold and soft grey; and the hours that followed were mild and cloudy as those of a day in Spring. The inmates of Les Casquets Cottage ate their humble Christmas dinner of a small piece of beef and a rough kind of raisin pudding; then Jean and his wife composed themselves to the unusual luxury of an afternoon sleep. Ellenor was too restless to stay at home. She wandered over the cliffs and insensibly she made, at last, for the Haunted House.

She threw herself on the grass at the back of the grim, gaunt building, and she tried to collect the miserable, wandering thoughts which were forever haunting her—thoughts of Dominic and Blaisette. All at once, a musical whistle startled her, and Le Mierre himself came up the cliff, a fish basket slung over his shoulder.

"You here, Ellenor!" he cried, sitting down beside her, "on Christmas Day and all alone! Where, then, are all your beaux?"

"You know quite well I've got none, and don't want none, Monsieur," she replied sulkily.

"Come, come, do you expect me to believe that of a pretty girl like you?"

"Pretty!" she echoed scornfully, "it's your Blaisette Simon that's as pretty as a wax doll. It isn't me, Monsieur, with my black looks!"

He laughed and put his arm round her. At his touch she trembled and a lovely colour rose in her pale face. Then, with slow, and as if involuntary, movement, her head nestled against his shoulder.

"That's right!" he said, "now you are a sensible girl. Let's be happy while we can. So you call Blaisette mine, do you! What a foolish Ellenor to be jealous of her. She's quite different from you, can't you see that she doesn't set a man's blood on fire like you do, witch?"

"That's all very well, Monsieur, but you told father to the veille that I would make a good servant and he thought perhaps you would wish to engage me for when you marry Blaisette, and I saw you with her on the jonquiÈre!"

"Well, sorciÈre, is it that I must speak only to you? And what if I do marry Blaisette?"

With a quick look into his amused eyes, she lifted her head from his shoulder and withdrew from his careless embrace. But it was only for a moment. In abandonment of grief and devotion she flung herself against his breast.

"I don't care," she sobbed, "if you marry Blaisette! I don't care if, even, I come to be your servant, but, for the sake of God, love me the best."

He smiled triumphantly over her hidden face and lightly kissed her dark hair.

"Good, there you shew sense! But, tell me, you can't be really jealous if you're willing for me to marry Blaisette? Why, you might even let out about what goes on in this Haunted House, just to vex me. And how do I know you won't do it, even yet?"

"I'd die first!" she cried, looking up proudly.

"That's settled then! And now let me tell you a secret, just to reward you. I am not even thinking of marriage with Blaisette Simon. Come, how many kisses will you give me for that piece of news?"

So heaven opened for Ellenor, and the rest of Christmas Day was spent in going over and over again every word he had said to her behind the Haunted House. She was unusually amiable at home, and her father, who was devoted to her, rejoiced in the sunshine of her ready smiles and bright ways.

This mood lasted but a few days. On New Year's Day she went to Colomberie Farm to help in the kitchen, for there was much to be done in the way of preparing refreshments for the constant string of guests who came to bring greetings and presents to the pretty Blaisette, the rich, desirable heiress.

Ellenor's duty was to take fresh relays of cake and wine into the best parlour: and towards the end of the afternoon, when it was dusk, and the lamps were not yet lit, she entered the room suddenly, intent on business. There were only two people seated by the fire. One was Blaisette, a vision of dainty prettiness in a new blue gown; the other was Dominic Le Mierre.

He held the girl's hand in his. He was bending forward to kiss her as Ellenor entered the room. From the heaven of the last few days, she fell into a hell of jealousy and bitter hatred of Blaisette. At once she turned and fled from the room. It was all very well to speak of his marriage with another girl, when she herself was in his arms. It was another thing to see him kiss the pink and white face of her rival. She could not bear it. Once more she rushed from Colomberie Farm in bitter despair and unreasoning grief.