For several days the halting step was not heard again, and Louise had nearly forgotten her fright, when one morning, about six o’clock, when Peter was out getting up his lobster pots, Louise, with her head still buried in the bed-clothes, suddenly heard—­or thought she heard—­the sound again.  She started up and listened:  there could be no doubt about it; someone was approaching the cottage at the back—­some one who was lame.  She hurried on some clothes and looked out of the door (the cabin had no window).  In the glittering morning light, the expanse of level shore and common was as desolate as ever.  She turned the corner of the cottage to the left, where Jenny and the pigs were.  There was no one there; then she went round to the right, and, as she did so, distinctly perceived a shadow vanishing swiftly round the corner of the stack of sea-weed.  She uttered a cry, and for a moment seemed like one paralysed; then moved forward hastily a few steps; stopped again, listening with a strange expression on her countenance to the sound of the limp, as it grew fainter and fainter; then advanced, as if unwillingly, to the back of the cottage, whence no one was visible.  A corner of rock, round which wound the path that ascended to the top of the cliff, projected at no great distance from the cottage.  She stood and looked at the rock, half as if it were a threatening, monster, half as if it were the door of hope:  then she went slowly back to the cottage.

She did not tell Peter this time about the step.

A week or two afterwards, when Peter Girard was returning from the rocks with a basketful of crabs, he was joined on the way by his mate, Mesurier.

The two fishermen trudged along in silence for some time, one a little in front of the other, after the manner of their kind; then Mesurier remarked, “We shall be wanting some new line before we go out for mackerel again.” (Mackerel are caught by lines in those parts, where the sea-bottom is too rocky for trawling).

Peter turned round and stood still to consider the question.

“I’ve got some strands knotted, if you and I set to work we can plait it before night.”

“I must go up to Jean’s for some bait first; there won’t be more than three hours left before dark, and how are we to get it done in that time?  I’d better get some in the village when I’m up there.”

“Hout, man! pay eight shillings for a line,” said the economical Peter, “and a pound of horsehair will make six.  I’ll send Louise for the bait, and you come along with me—­we’ll soon reckon out the plait.”

Mesurier, a thick-set, vigorous-looking man, shorter than Peter, stood still a moment, looking at him rather queerly out of his keen, grey eyes.

“Been up to Jean’s much of late?” he asked, trudging on again.

“No, not I,” said Peter.  “Hangin’ round in the village isn’t much after my mind.”

“Best send Louise instead, hey?”