Our antiquarian was growing old.  His face was pale, beautiful and refined, with a very spiritual expression.  The eyes were of a pure blue, in which dwelt almost the innocence of childhood.  He was slightly deformed in the back.  There was a pathetic tone in the voice, a resigned expression in the face, which told of a long life of struggle, and possibly much hardship and trouble—­the latter undoubtedly.

We soon found that he had in him the true artistic temperament.  His own work was beautiful, his carvings were full of poetical feeling.  If not a genius himself, he was one whose offspring should possess the “sacred fire,” which must be born with its possessor, can never after be kindled.  In one or two instances we pointed to something superlatively good.  “Ah, that is my son’s work,” he said; “it is not mine.”  And there was an inflection in the voice which told of pride and affection, and perhaps was the one bright spot in the old man’s pilgrimage, perhaps his one sorrow and trouble—­who could tell?  We had not seen the son; we felt we must do so.

The old man’s most treasured possession was a crucifix, to which he pointed with a reverential devotion.

“I have had it nearly thirty years,” he said, “and I never would sell it.  It is so beautiful that it must be by a great master—­one of the old masters.  People have come to see it from far and near.  Many have tempted me with a good offer, but I would never part with it.  Now I want the money and I wish to sell it.  Will you not buy it?”

It was certainly exquisitely beautiful; carved in ivory deeply browned with age.  We had never seen anything to equal the position of the Figure upon the Cross; the wonderful beauty of the head; the sorrow and sacredness of the expression; the perfect anatomy of the body.  But in our strictly Protestant prejudices we hesitated.  As an object of religion of course we could have nothing to do with it; the Roman Catholic creed, with its outward signs and symbols, was not ours; who even in our own Church mourned the almost lost beauty and simplicity of our ancient ritual; that substitution of the ceremonial for the spiritual, the creature for the Creator, which seems to threaten the downfall of the Establishment.  Would it be right to purchase and possess this beautiful thing merely as an object of refined and wonderful art?  I looked at H.C.  In his face at least there was no hesitation.  Such a prize was not to be lost if it could be obtained within reasonable limits.  It must take a place amongst his old china, his headless Saints and Madonnas!

[Illustration:  OLD HOUSES, MORLAIX.]

The first time we came across the old man—­it was quite by accident that we found him out—­we felt that we had discovered a prize in human nature:  one of those rare exceptions that exist still in out-of-the-way nooks and corners, but are seldom found.  It is so difficult to go through the world and remain unspoiled by it; especially for those who, having to work for their daily bread by the sweat of their brow, have to come into daily contact with that harder, coarser element in human nature, that, for ever over-reaching its neighbour, tries to believe that the race is to the swift and the battle to the strong.