I hope this ends it." But the other shook his head doubtfully, and as they parted at the crossways, he said gloomily, "She'll know no peace till he's under the sea or the sod." And the Senechal nodded and strode thoughtfully away towards Beauregard, while Carre went on to Havre Gosselin.
When he reached the cottage at the head of the chasm, he lifted the latch and went in.

He was confronted by a small boy of three or so, who at sound of the latch had snatched a stick from the floor, with a frown of vast determination on his baby face--an odd, meaningful action.
At sight of Philip Carre, however, the crumpled face relaxed instantly, and the youngster launched himself at him with a shout of welcome.
At sound of the latch, too, a girlish figure had started up from the lit-de-fouaille in the corner by the hearth--the great square couch built out into the room and filled with dried bracken, the universal lounge in the Islands, and generally of a size large enough to accommodate the entire family.
This was Carre's daughter, Rachel, Martel's wife.

Her face was very comely.
She was the Island beauty when Martel married her, and much sought after, which made her present state the more bitter to contemplate.

Her face was whiter even than of late, at the moment, by reason of the dark circles of suffering round her eyes and the white cloth bound round her head.

She sat up and looked at her father, with the patient expectancy of one who had endured much and doubted still what might be in store for her.
Carre gripped the small boy's two hands in his big brown one, and the youngster with a shout threw back his body and planted his feet on his grandfather's leg, and walked up him until the strong right arm encircled him and he was seated triumphantly in the crook of it.