"Houses were made for Christians." As she pronounced these words the peasant pointed to the fire. All the fileuses (spinners) moved to allow me to approach it, and I took my place near the young mother, while the mistress of the house threw on the fire some dry thorns.

A long silence ensued, the laws of Breton hospitality prohibiting the addressing of questions to a guest before he has himself spoken. At last I asked whether Treguier was yet far off.

"Three leagues and some sifflées," replied the peasant; "but the rivers have overflowed, and the route is dangerous without a guide."

"Cannot one of your men accompany me?" "Our men have all gone to Newfoundland in the ship 'St. Pierre."

"What, all?"

"All. Our master knows very well that those of the same parish embark together when they can."

"And you are expecting their return?" "Every day.

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dignity, visibly tempered by a caressing tenderness.

At the expiration of a moment she perceived that I was observing her, and turned away in embarrassment. But, during the examination to which I had devoted myself, the conversation between the fileuses had continued, and each was talking of what she meant to do when the St. Pierre should have returned.

"I will go to the city, and, foronce, eat wheat bread till I am satisfied," said one. "My brother has promised me a silver ring of thirty blancs," added another.

"I will buy a mass for the soul of my mother."

"I will go on a pilgrimage to St. Anne." "And you, Dinah," asked I of the peasant, "what will you do when Joan shall have returned?"

"I will put his child in his arms and stay with them," replied she, blushing.

"And yet," continued a second woman, "it is quite time the men should return."

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Why so?" asked I.

"She pointed to the peasant who was seated beside me on the hearth.

"Ask Dinah how many bushels of barley she has left in her chest."

The young Breton blushed.

"Not to reckon," added the mistress of the house, "that she owes me for as many measures of milk as her child is days old."

"And that the proprietor of the cottage yesterday threatened to sell her along with it," "added a third.

"So," resumed the one who had spoken first, "I have counselled her to ask of God that the sailors of the St. Pierre may have met with such success in fishing as to have a double portion."

"I only ask of God that he will bring back Joan," said the peasant, pressing her child to her bosom.

"I was struck with the sad, passionate, and profound accent with which these words were pronounced, and I turned to look at Dinah. She was a woman of twenty-four or more, whose beauty was at once noble and gentle. With erect form, high forehead, and bare feet boldly resting on the hearthstone, she was supporting with one arm the child sleeping on her bosom, while the other hand lay motionless. There was, in the delicate but proud outlines of her countenance, in her half-opened lips, her black eyes always ready to be cast down, a regal

The Breton peasants call citizens my master.

"There is someone on the threshold," said the mistress of the house.

She had not finished when a rough knock shook the door, and a harsh voice was heard without.

"Is there any place in this house for the poor?"

"Anaik Timor!" exclaimed all the women. "Anaik !" repeated Dinah, drawing her child by an involuntary movement closer to her bosom.

"Who is she?" asked I.

"A beggar-woman who can look into the future, and tells fortunes," added the mistress of the cabin.

"Is there any place in this house for the poor?" repeated the voice, in a tone of impatience.

"Let her enter, or she will bring some mis fortune upon us," observed Dinah.

A fileuse opened the door, and Anaik Timor appeared. She was an old woman, of small stature, whose ragged vestments scarcely covered her thin limbs. Her grey eye had that fiery and yet fitful expression imparted by madness or intoxication. She stopped in the middle of the room, and shook herself with a dull muttering.

"You were unwilling to receive Timor," said she, casting around her a dissatisfied glance; "you let her knock without replying."

No one expected you," replied the mistress, with some embarrassment.

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No, I am never expected," grumbled Anaik. "What matters it to those who are warm before the fire that others are cold without their threshold? But take care; everybody will have their

turn!"

Although I knew the privileges accorded to mendicants in this country, and was accustomed to see them, once admitted, treat the masters of

the house on a footing of equality, I was astonished at the imperious and almost menacing tone of the old woman. Still grumbling, she laid aside her wallet: after having deposited it in a corner, she stepped towards the hearth and perceived me.

"Ah, there is a gentleman here!" said she, stopping short, and fixing on me her piercing glance; a gentleman who wears fine linen, who has a watch-Jann also had one-and earrings in his ears, and shoes with ribbons. When Jann was living old Timor did not need to knock at doors with a beggar's staff. But he has gone to rejoin his father's sisters. Then, everybody walks over the head of the widow who has seen her last son lowered into the ground !"

And she began to chant, unintelligibly, the well-known couplets of the Peste d'Eliant:

"I had nine sons, and death hath taken them all from me, taken them on the threshold of our door; and I have no one to give me a drop of water' !"

As she murmured this chant she knelt on the hearthstone, and extended her skeleton hands before the flames, whose dying gleams made the frost sparkle on her hair. Her haggard eyes, which wandered around, rested on Dinah, and a gleam of hatred crossed her features.

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"Ah, you are there, crow's-eye!" resumed she. Why do you come amongst honest people, you, the rope-maker's daughter?"

I looked at the young peasant, who turned pale. These words of "ropemaker's daughter" explained to me the timidity of Dinah, and the vague malevolence which seemed to surround her. She belonged to the race of Rakouss,* against which the popular prejudices in Brittany had been recently renewed.

"You are proud," resumed Anaik," because a young man of the parish has chosen you, because you have a child. I also had a husband, children. But wait. It is a year, now, since I have been predicting to you evil days." "Why do you wish me evil, Timor?" asked Dinah, in a gentle and timid tone.

Why!" exclaimed the old woman; "do you ask me why? Did not your husband drive me from his house?"

"Because your abuse made me weep." "Abuse!" repeated Anaik; "I called you a ropemaker's daughter! Is it not the truth? And yet you said I was drunk! He threatened me, yes, he threatened old Timor. Ah, ah! there are those who set their feet on the viper, but the viper knows how to bite! An hour will come in which I shall be revenged on all those who have scorned me, and who have kept me waiting at their doors. Yes, yes; the people bere will not always be so proud, for misfortune will come to them from Treguier."

"From Treguier?" repeated Dinah, hastily. "Have you seen anyone who has arrived from there?"

"The St. Pierre !" exclaimed all voices. Anaik cast around her a malicious look, and laughed loudly.

"No," said she; "a ship of Saxons." The fileuses uttered an exclamation of disappointment.

"Confound the island Pagans," said one of them with vexation; "I thought it was our people."

"The Saxons also come from Newfoundland," observed Timor.

"Do they bring news of the St. Pierre ?" asked Dinah, uneasy at the wild smile of the mendicant.

The latter seemed not to have heard her. "They came on down to Mareck to drink, and the captain spoke French, so I understood him."

"And what did he say?"

"He spoke of mountains of ice, which float on the seas there and crush vessels!"

'Had he seen them?"

"He had seen them!"

"And had he heard of shipwrecks ?"

No; but on his return he had fallen in with a wreck !"

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Fragments of a vessel ?"

"And on one of the planks was the name St. Pierre !"

This announcement of Anaik Timor was a thunderbolt.

"The St. Pierre!" repeated every voice; "did he say the St. Pierre ?" "Of Treguier!"

"You are sure you heard him?" "Sure!"

Cries of despair burst forth: I had been struck, like themselves, with this sudden intelligence; but the smile of the old beggarwoman made me suspicious.

"Do not believe her," exclaimed I; "she wishes to frighten you; she is drunk!" And addressing myself to Timor, I said, "You have not seen an English captain; nor have you been told that the St. Pierre is shipwrecked: you lie, wicked 'groac'h'!"

At this name, by which the worst species of swearers is designated in Brittany, the eyes of the mendicant sparkled, and she rose with a savage growl. "Ah, well, exclaimed she, striking her foot upon the earth; "this is the way the gentleman talks to old Anaik! I lie, I am drunk! Well, let the women here consult the warnings! let them listen whether the sea-water does not fall drop by drop at the foot of their beds; let those who have broken the Twelfth-cake see whether the share of the absent ones has not spoiled.* Ah, Timor is a

Supposed to be descended from the gypsies, and therefore held in contempt by the Bretons.

* Presages which, in the eyes of the Bretons, announce the death of the absent.

'groac'h'! It is well, it is well! Heaven has its signs, and the drowned will speak!"

"Listen!" interrupted Dinah, who had risen, pale and with disturbed features.

We listened; a chant was heard amid the gusts of the tempest. It soon became nearer, more distinct, and the wind having lulled for a moment, we could distinguish voices repeating the "Chant of Souls":

"Brothers, parents, friends, in the name of heaven hear us-succour us, if there is still pity in the world.

"All those whom we have nourished have long since forgoiten us; those whom we have loved have forsaken us without pity.

"You repose there softly-poor souls are in pain; you sleep soundly-poor souls are awake in suffering.

"We are in flames and anguish; fire on our heads, fire under our feet; flames above, flames below, pray for our souls!"

As soon as the first verse of this mournful chant was heard, all the women rose in inexpressible anguish; while I, struck with this species of response to the appeal of Timor, remained immovable, and as it were fascinated; but on hearing the voices die away in the distance I darted to the cottage-door, and stepped a few paces without. As far as my eye could pierce the night the valley was deserted, the snow continued to fall in silence, and the hurricane to roar on the mountain.

"but the joy of telling bad news which brought you so late in our roads."

"So the beggar-woman has told the truth?" exclaimed Dinah, trembling.

"No, not entirely so!" replied the priest. "How?"

"The English ship arrived at Treguier has not only brought news of the St. Pierre: it also brought the saved."

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Saved-they are saved!"

"At least in part," replied the priest. "When the shipwreck took place, six men made a vow. if they escaped, to come barefooted and veiled to hear the mass I should say for them at the altar of the Virgin."

"And these six ?" "Have survived!" "Where are they?"

"You have just heard them pass!"

The women would have rushed from the cabin.

"Stop!" cried the rector, stationing himself on the threshold; "you cannot see them." "Are they not here?"

"They are here! But all have promised not to lay aside the veil which covers them until after the holy offices.'

"Their names, at least their names!” exclaimed Dinah, wildly.

"It would be to violate the oath,” replied the priest; "for they have sworn not to make themselves known to their wives, their sisters, or their mothers until the vow is fulfilled."

A clamour of despair now arose, and there was a moment of hesitation. Each woman named

"Ah, ah, I was mad !" exclaimed she; "you said just now that old Timor lied !" "And she has not proved to the contrary," returned I, seeking to conceal my feelings.

"Did not the gentleman hear the voices?" "I heard some pilgrims or travellers pass, chanting a canticle."

She looked at me with a spiteful eye, and shook her head.

"Well," said she, "that is the way they talk in the city, in the city where they do not believe in souls. They look upon their dead as dogs, who perish entirely in the hole of the earth, where they are buried. The gentleman may say that those who have just passed were not the drowned of the St. Pierre."

"And the gentleman will be in the right," interrupted a grave voice.

I turned; a priest had just entered, and was standing on the threshold.

All the women rose, exclaiming, "It is the rector !"

The latter advanced slowly, and cast a severe glance on Anaik Timor.

"What are you doing here?" asked he, roughly.

"The poor have a right to go wherever there are Christians and a morsel of bread," replied the mendicant.

"It was not hunger," resumed the rector,

husband, attempting to surprise a reply on the features of the rector at every name pronounced; but the priest, impassive, continued to invoke the sanctity of the vow, and to appeal to their submission. At last, some, listening only to their sorrowful impatience, exclaimed that they would know their fate; the rector in vain attempted to detain them; they ran to a second door and opened it precipitately.

"Go, then," said the indignant priest; violate the promise made to God; but tremble lest your sacrilege be punished, and may the first one who raises the veil from the shipwrecked seek in vain him whom she is awaiting!"

Dinah, who was about to go out, hastily recoiled.

"Ab, I will not go!" exclaimed she in

terror.

"Wait and pray," resumed he with authority; your uncertainty can last but a short time longer; endure it without a murmur as a punishment for your sins; seek to submit your souls to the divine will. Let each of you consider herself from this moment a widow or an orphan; let her accept with her heart this hard sacrifice; and if he whom she believes lost should emerge from the tomb, let her see in this a miracle for which to thank God as long as she lives."

The women burst into tears, and fell on their knees.

The rector attempted to calm them by addressing to each some particular consolation. Then, having announced to them that he was about to celebrate the mass of deliverance for the shipwrecked, he invited them to accompany him to the church to unite their prayers with his own.

All followed except Dinah, who hastily turned, ran to old Timor, who was seated before the fire, and seized her hand.

"You know who are saved?" asked she, with a stifled accent.

"I?" replied Anaik.

"You must have seen them at Treguier!" “Well?"

"Joan! where is Joan ?"

The mendicant made a mocking gesture. "The priest has ordered you to wait," said she.

“No,” cried Dinah, throwing herself on her knees, with clasped hands and supplicating glance; "I conjure you, Anaik, tell me if you saw Joan; if you recognized him. Oh, only say yes by a gesture; or, if he has perishedwell! that I may know it. Better to die than to wait! Anaik, Anaik! do not refuse me !" "And what will you give me for my news?" asked the mendicant.

"All I possess !" cried Dinah. "What will you have? my ebony chaplet, my cross? Here they are!"

"It is not enough !" "Well, here is also the silver ring which he gave me; take all, Anaik, all I have in the world."

She was still at the feet of the old woman, pressing with one hand her child against her breast, and with the other presenting her cross, her ring, and her chaplet. Timor held her an instant agonizing beneath her glance; then uttering a burst of insensate laughter, she said: "Keep all; I love better to torment you." Dinah sprang up and rushed from the cabin. I was too much moved to remain a stranger to what was about to take place; I followed her. She crossed the hamlet running, and we arrived together at the church.

The women were already assembled there; the wax-lights were burning on the altar; the desk had just been placed before it. Suddenly the door of the sacristy opened, and the six shipwrecked men appeared veiled in shrouds which enveloped them entirely.

A heavy groan resounded among the women; some names escaped them amid their sobs; but the veils remained immovable.

only by the voice of the priest, and if at intervals a plaint was heard, his voice was elevated as if to recall to patience, and the plaint was suppressed. Sublime power of will over the human soul! All these women were there awaiting the decree which was to decide their lives, and all, with hands clasped on their hearts, remained immovable.

I looked at Dinah several times; she was kneeling near the door, her brow lifted, her hands hanging down, and her child lying before her like a victim who awaits the blow without thinking of avoiding it.

At last the rector pronounced the words of dismission, and a shudder ran through the crowd. There was a moment of inexpressible anguish. Every head was bent forward, every arm extended towards the altar.

"Raise your souls to God!" said the priest. And taking by the hand the veiled man who stood nearest him, he made him advance a step, and removed the shroud which covered him. A cry was heard, and a woman darted towards the altar.

The priest passed to a second, then to the following. At each veil torn away a new cry of joy was heard, half stifled by a sorrowful murmur; but at the last a clamour of despair arose, and sobs burst forth on every side.

I hastily turned towards Dinah; she was in the same place, in the same attitude, still looking upward. Every veil had fallen, and she still sought for Joan.

I passed the remainder of the night at the presbytery, while the rector occupied himself in consoling the widows and orphans. At last, day having come, I could resume my route to Treguier. The storm had ceased and the sun was shining joyously in the sky; the birds, reanimated, were hopping and warbling on the trees sparkling with the frost; the hawthorn hedges had shaken off their snowy robes and were displaying their laughing buds; the entire creation seemed renewed, and a breath of spring was passing over the fields.

As I was about descending the hill, and turned to cast a last look on the desolate hamlet which I had just quitted, I perceived in the distance Dinah, the widow of Joan, who was descending the opposite declivity with her child in her arms, and holding in her hand the white staff of a mendicant.