It was not yet the dinner-hour and we had it all to ourselves, with the waiter’s undivided attention, who hoped we had not been disappointed in our little excursion.  “He had been five years in Landerneau, but had never yet seen le Folgoet.  Dame! he had no time for pilgrimages, and doubted whether, after all, they did much good.  For his part, he didn’t believe in miracles.  Du reste, he had nothing the matter with him; was neither blind, lame, nor stupid—­grace au ciel, for he had his living to get.  As for the church, to him one church was very much like another:  and he would rather arrange a pyramid of strawberries than contemplate the spires of his native Quimper.”

So true is it that water will not rise above its own level—­and perhaps so merciful.

In due course we returned once more to our now old and familiar haunt, Morlaix.  We came back to it each time with our affection and admiration heightened.  Its old streets seem to grow more and more picturesque; and more and more we appeared to absorb into our “inner consciousness” this mediaeval atmosphere.  We seemed to be living in a perpetual romance of the past; and the men and women who surrounded us were so many puppets animated by invisible threads.  It was the perfection of existence, in its particular way and for a short time.

The shades of evening had fallen when we once more found ourselves descending Jacob’s Ladder.  The Antiquarian’s door was closed, but a light gleamed through the crevices of the shutters, as antiquated as some of his cherished possessions.  We would not disturb him, though we felt sorely inclined to lift the latch and look in upon the picturesque interior.  We imagined him perhaps telling his beads, his grey head bowed before the crucifix which, artistically and religiously, was the object of his veneration; mentally we saw the son bending over a plain piece of wood, which gradually assumed a form and design that would make it a thing of beauty for ever.  By lifting the latch, all this would be revealed, delight our eyes and refresh our spirit.  But what more might we see?  The cherub probably was in bed, but the rift within the lute?  Ah, that was uncertain; we could not tell.  So we thought we would leave the picture to our imagination, where at least it was perfect.

So we went on without lifting the latch; and H.C. fell into raptures over the rising moon and the quaint gables that stood out so gloriously and mysteriously in the pale light.  A warmer glow illumined many a lattice.  We were surrounded by deep lights and shadows, and felt ourselves steeped in a world of the past, holding familiar intercourse with ghosts that haunted every nook and crevice, every doorway, every niche and archway of this old-world town.

At the hotel, we found Madame Hellard taking the air at her doorway, her hands calmly folded in her favourite attitude of rest and contentment—­or was it expectation?

“Was I not a prophet?” was her first greeting.  “Did I not say this morning ‘No umbrellas?’ Have we not had a glorious day!”