“Yes, Noel, I wish you all happiness in your new life, and hope you will have a safe and pleasant voyage.”

“And is that all you have to say to me, my father?”

The cure did not reply, but pointed to Madame McAllister, who was gazing at her son with eager, wistful eyes, jealously counting every moment of absence from her side.  He obeyed the cure’s unspoken command, and returned to his mother, conscience-stricken at the silent rebuke of this his best and most valued friend.

No change of plan was possible now.  The die was cast for good or evil.  Weakness had triumphed over strength.  Blame him—­he was worthy of blame; but, pausing for a moment, may it not be said that nine men out of ten would have decided as did Noel McAllister?

“Oh! my mother, you know I shall write every week.  Do not distress yourself.  Marie, good-bye.  Remember always it was you who bade me go.  Good-bye, Monsieur Gourdon.  Good-bye, Jean.”

He was off at last, and the steamer moved out from the pier.  How bitter these partings are and how hard to bear, but the thought crossed M. Bois-le-Duc’s mind just then that there were worse things than partings.

“Take me home,” said Madame McAllister.  “I cannot stay here watching my boy disappear.”

She was terribly distressed, and the cure and Jean Gourdon led her home.  No one seemed to think of Marie.  She had disappeared behind a huge pile of lumber, and had sat down to rest on a great log.  There she sat for she knew not how long; she seemed unconscious, oblivious of all, save that tiny black speck which was sinking lower and lower on the horizon.  Finally it disappeared down the great waste of interminable ocean.

The sun set, and the air grew chill; the tide rose high; the curlews hovered round with their weird cries; the Angelus from the church came wafted across the waters, faint and sweet in its distant music, and the laborers in the fields paused a moment in their tasks to do homage to the Holy Maiden in murmured prayers.  But Marie Gourdon heard none of these sounds, felt not the cold of the evening air.  Her senses were benumbed, and she was only conscious of a dull, aching pain.

Two hours passed, and during these two hours Marie fought out her battle with herself.  When M. le cure missed her, he went to look for her at her father’s house, and not finding her there, the idea occurred to him that she might be still on the pier.  Returning, he found her.  Laying a gentle hand on her down-bent head, he said: 

“My child, come home with me.  You must not give way like this, such grief is wrong, and—­he is not worthy of it.”

“Oh! my father,” said Marie, lifting a wan, white face to his, “life is indeed hard.”

“Yes,” said the cure, raising his hat reverently, and looking out towards the cold, unfathomable waters of the great Gulf.  “And, my child, there is only One who can help us on that rough path.”