A Loose End | Page 7

and lame?" She paused another moment, then drew
the Vicar close to her and whispered in his ear, "I cut the rope. I knew
he was followin' me. I let myself halfway down, then clung to the iron
hold and cut the rope, with the knife I'd taken from him. It was at the
risk of my life I did it. And he followed me, and he fell and was killed.
Father, will God punish me for it? It has blighted my life. I have never
been like other women. I never was wed, for how could I tend little

children with blood on my hands? And the children shrank from me, or
I thought they did. But it was for Daddy's sake. He had a happy old age,
and he gave me his blessing when he died. Father"--her voice became
almost inaudible--"when I stand before God's throne--will God
remember--it was for Daddy's sake?"
The failing eye was fixed on the pastor's face, as if it would search his
soul for the truth. The fellow-being, on whom she laid so great a
burden, for one moment, quailed: then spoke assuring words of the
mercy of that God to whom all hearts are open: but already the ebbing
strength, too severely strained in the effort of disclosure, was passing
away, and the words of comfort were spoken to ears that were closed in
death.
* * * * *
Under the South wall of the island burying-ground is a nameless grave:
where in the summer days fragments of toys and nose-gays are often to
be seen scattered about; for the sunny corner is a favourite play-place,
and the voices of children sound there; and they trample with their little
feet the grass above Marie's grave, and strew wild flowers on it.

IN A BRETON VILLAGE.

PART I.
In a wild and little-known part of the coast of Brittany, where, in place
of sandy beach or cliff, huge granite boulders lie strewn along the shore,
like the ruins of some Titan city, and assuming, here the features of
some uncouth monster, there the outline of some gigantic fortress,
present an aspect of mingled farce and solemnity, and give the whole
region the air of some connection with the under-world,--on this coast,
and low down among the boulders out to sea, stands a little fishing
village.
The granite cottages with their thatched roofs--bits of warm colour

among the bare rocks--lie on a tongue of land between the two inlets of
the sea, which, when the tides run high, nearly cut them off from the
mainland. Opposite the village on the other side of the little inland sea,
is a second cluster of piled-up rocks thrust forth, like the fist of a giant,
to defy the onslaught of Neptune, and on a plateau near the summit, is
the skeleton of a house, built for a summer residence by a Russian
Prince, who had a fancy for solitude and sea air, but abandoned for
some reason before the interior was completed. Solitary and lifeless,
summer and winter, it looks silently down like a wall-eyed ghost over
the waste of rocks and sea.
Below the house and close down by the seashore, is a low, thatched
cottage, built against the rock, which forms its back wall, and on to
which the rough granite blocks of which the cottage is constructed are
rudely cemented with earth and clay; the floor also consists of the
living rock, not levelled, but just as the foot of the wanderer had
trodden it under the winds of heaven for ages before the cottage was
built. In this primitive dwelling--which was not, however, more rude
than many of the fishermen's cottages along the coast--there lived, a
few years since, three persons: old Aimée Kaudren, aged seventy, who
with her snow-white cap and sabots, and her keen clear-cut face, might
have been seen any day in or near the cottage, cutting the gorse-bushes
that grew about the rocks for firing, leading the cow home from her
scanty bit of grazing, kneeling on the stone edge of the pond by the
well, to wash the clothes, or within doors cooking the soup in the huge
cauldron that stood on the granite hearth. A sight indeed it was to see
the aged dame bending over the tripod, with the dried gorse blazing
beneath it, while its glow illumined the dark, cavernous chimney above,
was flashed back from the polished doors of the great oak chest, with
its burnished brass handles, and from the spotless copper saucepans
hanging on the walls; and brightened the red curtains of the cosy
box-bedstead in the corner by the fire.
The second inhabitant of the cottage was Aimée's son, Jean, the
fisherman, with his blue blouse, and his swarthy, rough-hewn