It comforted the mistress of it to stand upon the causeway bridge and get soaking wet--or to sit in one of the mullioned windows of her great sitting-room and watch the angry water thundering beneath.

And here the Pere Anselme found her on the morning after his return.
She rose quickly in gladness to meet him, and they sat down together again.
She spoke her sympathy for this bereavement which had caused his absence, but he said with grave peace: "She is well, my sister--a martyr in life, she has paid her debt.

I have no grief." So they talked about the garden, and of the fisher-folk, and their winter needs.

There had been a wreck of a fishing boat, and a wife and children would be hungry but for the kindness of their Dame d'Heronac.
Then there was a pause--not one of those calm, happy pauses of other days, when each one dreamed, but a pause wrought with unease.

The Cure's old black eyes had a questioning expression, and then he asked: "And what is it, my daughter?
Your heart is not at rest." But Sabine could not answer him.