“I want,” I said, suddenly, “to find a place where I can live very cheaply.  I have not much money, and I must make it last a long time.  I do not mind how quiet the place, or how poor; the quieter the better for me.  Can you tell me of such a place?”

“You would want a place fit for a lady?” he said, in a half-questioning tone, and with a glance at my silk dress.

“No,” I answered, eagerly.  “I mean such a cottage as you would live in.  I would do all my own work, for I am very poor, and I do not know yet how I can get my living.  I must be very careful of my money till I find out what I can do.  What sort of a place do you and your wife live in?”

His face was clouded a little, I thought; and he did not answer me till after a short silence.

“My poor little wife is dead,” he answered, “and I do not live in Guernsey or Jersey.  We live in Sark, my mother and I. I am a fisherman, but I have also a little farm, for with us the land goes from the father to the eldest son, and I was the eldest.  It is true we have one room to spare, which might do for mam’zelle; but the island is far away, and very triste.  Jersey is gay, and so is Guernsey, but in the winter Sark is too mournful.”

“It will be just the place I want,” I said, eagerly; “it would suit me exactly.  Can you let me go there at once?  Will you take me with you?”

“Mam’zelle,” he replied, smiling, “the room must be made ready for you, and I must speak to my mother.  Besides, Sark is six miles from Guernsey, and to-day the passage would be too rough for you.  If God sends us fair weather I will come back to St. Peter-Port for you in three days.  My name is Tardif.  You can ask the people in Peter-Port what sort of a man Tardif of the Havre Gosselin is.”

“I do not want any one to tell me what sort of a man you are,” I said, holding out my hand, red and cold with the keen air.  He took it into his large, rough palm, looking down upon me with an air of friendly protection.

“What is your name, mam’zelle?” he inquired.

“Oh! my name is Olivia,” I said; then I stopped abruptly, for there flashed across me the necessity for concealing it.  Tardif did not seem to notice my embarrassment.

“There are some Olliviers in St. Peter-Port,” he said.  “Is mam’zelle of the same family?  But no, that is not probable.”

“I have no relations,” I answered, “not even in England.  I have very few friends, and they are all far away in Australia.  I was born there, and lived there till I was seventeen."’

The tears sprang to my eyes again, and my new friend saw them, but said nothing.  He moved off at once to the far end of the dock, to help one of the crew in some heavy piece of work.  He did not come hack until the rain began to return—­a fine, drizzling rain, which came in scuds across the sea.

“Mam’zelle,” he said, “you ought to go below; and I will tell you when we are in sight of Guernsey.”