We came in arm in arm.

“Do you see any objection to our marrying at once, M. Le Marchant?” I asked.  “We are of one mind in the matter.”

“B’en!” said Aunt Jeanne, with a face like a globe of light.  “We will have it on Wednesday.  You can go over to the Dean for a license, mon gars, and I’ll be all ready—­Wednesday—­you understand.”

And Jean Le Marchant smiled and said, “At Beaumanoir Mistress Falla rules the roost.  Everyone does as she says.”

“I should think so,” said Aunt Jeanne, with an emphatic nod.  “If they don’t I know the reason why.  So we’ll say Wednesday.  Have you had the news, Phil?”

“What news then, Aunt Jeanne?”

“Ah then, you’ve not heard.  George Hamon was in from Guernsey.  He says you are to get the reward offered by the London Merchants for the upsetting of Monsieur Torode.”

“I?”

“And who better, mon gars?  If it hadn’t been for you, he’d be there yet gobbling their ships at his will.  Now don’t you be a fool, my dear.  Take what the good God sends you with a good grace.  You’ll find a use for it when the babies begin coming, I warrant you.  Little pigs don’t fatten on water.  Ma fe, non!”—­at which bit of Aunt Jeanne, Carette only laughed, with a fine colour in her face.

And to make an end of that, in due time the five thousand pounds was indeed sent to me, and I put it in the bank in Guernsey for the use of Carette “and the children” as Aunt Jeanne said—­and of the interest I reserved a portion for the provision of such small comforts as were possible to the lonely one on the Ecrehous.

And so, by no merit of my own, I became a man of substance and not dependent on Aunt Jeanne’s bounty, which I think she would have preferred.

We were married in the little church alongside the Seigneurie at the head of the valley, by M. Pierre Paul Secretan, and Aunt Jeanne’s enjoyment therein and in the feast that followed was, I am certain, greater than any she had felt when she was married herself.

We continued to live with her at Beaumanoir, and she gave me of her wisdom in all matters relating to the land and its treatment, as she did also to Carette in household matters and the proper bringing up of a family, about which latter subject she knew far more than any mother that ever was born.

In me she found an apt pupil, and so came to leave matters more and more in my hands, with sharp criticism of all mistakes and ample advice for setting things right.

Carette drank in all her wisdom—­until the babies came, and then she took her own way with them, and, judging by results, it was an excellent way.

George Hamon still brought me word from time to time of the exile on the Ecrehous.

We were sitting over the fire, one cold night in the spring, Carette and I, Aunt Jeanne having gone to bed to get warm, when a knock came on the door, and when I opened it George Hamon came in and stood before the hearth.  He looked pinched and cold, and yet aglow with some inner warmth, and his first word told why.