t was a still, beautiful evening in summer. Perrin Corbet was free till ten o'clock, when he would go fishing with Jean Cartier. It was very lonely now in the cottage, for Perrin's mother was dead, and he spent very little time at home. This special evening he decided to make a pilgrimage to the churchyard of St. Pierre du Bois where his mother was buried. Her grave was close to the church in a place of long grass and overshadowing trees. As Perrin entered the churchyard he saw that a woman was bending over the grave: he knew at once who it was, and his heart beat quicker. It was so long since he had seen her and spoken with her!

When he was quite close, she turned round, and he saw that she had been crying. On the grave she had put a rude cross of immortelles.

"Ellenor," he said quietly, "I did not expect to see you. I thought you were yet in Sark."

"I came back this morning by the early cutter. I was longing to get back home."

"And we have been longing for you to come back! It is kind of you to put flowers here. Ah, it is always a woman who thinks of those things! We are such stupid creatures, we men! She who lies here so often said that to me. I miss her more and more, Ellenor."

"Poor Perrin!" she said softly, and for one long moment she looked into the faithful face bent over his mother's grave; then she turned away with a bitter sigh. Perrin lifted his head; not a thing she did, not a movement, not a sigh of hers ever escaped him.

"What is it?" he asked, in his low, kind voice, "are you fretting still?"

"No, no, but it seems I can't forget quickly all that has passed."

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. Perrin touched her arm.

"Come and sit in the church porch," he said, "and tell me all about it."

Still with her hands covering her face, she let him lead her to the old stone seat in the grey porch. Presently, with an evident effort, her hands fell from her face, and she clasped them in her lap.

"I am selfish," she said, "never once have I told you how sorry I was to hear of your mother's death, it seems I could only think of myself."

"I have understood all the time. I knew you would be sad for me. But, of course, you could not help thinking most of yourself and of what you have lost."

"Ah, how it hurts to hear you say that! Tell me, am I very ugly! I know I will get the truth from you."

"Ugly!" he repeated, "ugly, to me you are the prettiest woman in Guernsey. Your hair, all growing again in dear little dark rings, like the curls of a baby! Your eyes once more beautiful with long eyelashes; your sad mouth! Ah, Ellenor, how can I speak to you like this quietly! I love you more than ever! But I know it is useless! Did you think I meant your looks when I spoke of what you had lost? Oh, no, I mean something else."

"What is it you mean?"

"That you have lost him you love, Dominic Le Mierre."

For a long while Ellenor did not speak: then she said wearily,

"But it seems to me I don't love him any more. It seems he killed my love the night of Les Brandons. It was awful when he died. And all I could think of was to get away from Guernsey and all the people I knew. In Sark, I forgot about him a little. But now I'm back, it seems I can't think of nothing else. I am so frightened of him. Perhaps, some day, when I'm going by the road to OrvilliÈre, he'll come back from the dead and laugh and jeer at me. Because, as for him, he didn't love me no more after Les Brandons. No, I don't care for him now. But I've no heart left, I am only tired, and oh, so frightened of him!"

She looked at Perrin like a child asking for protection, and in an instant his strong arm was round her. She drew a deep sigh of relief and smiled a little.

"Let me take of you, my own girl," he said, "I won't bother you to try to love me. Please God, that will come in time."

"Yes, please take care of poor me, poor wicked, stupid me," she whispered, "you're such a good man. I'm so safe with you. There's nobody in all the world I'd trust like you, Perrin."

He drew her head down to his breast, and the still evening breathed a benediction over the woman who had sinned and suffered and over the man who had loved her throughout with a tender reverence which is the very heart of the divinest love.