Already they were cutting out the new waterproof cloth on the clean white table, and getting it ready for the approaching Iceland season.
"You see, Mademoiselle Gaud, it's like this: every man wants two new suits." They explained to her how they set to work to make them, and to render their seams waterproof with tar, for they were for wet weather wear.
And while they worked, Gaud looked attentively around the home of these Gaoses.
It was furnished after the traditional manner of all Breton cottages; an immense chimney-place took up one whole end, and on the sides of the walls the Breton beds, bunks, as on shipboard, were placed one above another.

But it was not so sombre and sad as the cabins of other peasants, which are generally half-hidden by the wayside; it was all fresh and clean, as the homes of seamen usually are.

Several little Gaoses were there, girls and boys, all sisters and brothers of Yann; without counting two big ones, who were already out at sea.

And, besides, there was a little fair girl, neat, but sad, unlike the others.
"We adopted her last year," explained the mother; "we had enough children as it was, of course, but what else could we do, Mademoiselle Gaud, for her daddy belonged to the _Maria-Dieu-t'aime_, lost last season off Iceland, as you know; so the neighbours divided the little ones between them, and this one fell to our lot." Hearing herself spoken of, the adopted child hung her pretty head and smiled, hiding herself behind little Laumec Gaos, her favourite.
There was a look of comfort all over the place, and radiant health bloomed on all the children's rosy cheeks.
They received Gaud very profusely, like a great lady whose visit was an honour to the family.

She was taken upstairs, up a newly-built wooden staircase, to see the room above, which was the glory of the home.