Just as the day broke, Yann’s father entered.  He took off his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in curls like Yann’s, sat down by Gaud’s bedside.

His heart ached heavily too; for Yann, his tall, handsome Yann, was his first-born, his favorite and his pride:  but he did not despair yet.  He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affectionate way.  To begin with, those who had last returned from Iceland spoke of the increasing dense fogs, which might well have delayed the vessel; and then too an idea struck him,—­they might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on their homeward course, whence letters were so long in traveling.  This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.  The Leopoldine was such a good boat,—­next to new,—­and her crew were such able-bodied seamen.

Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head:  the distress of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason.  She tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black bead-work.  Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last offspring, she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her heart.

But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old sire, who so much resembled her beloved one; merely to have him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann.  Her tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passionate prayers to the Star of the Sea.

A delay out at those Islands to repair damages was a very likely event.  She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed as if she might fairly expect him.  All then was not lost, if a seaman, his own father, did not yet despair.  And for a few days she resumed looking out for him again.

Autumn at last arrived,—­a late autumn too,—­its gloomy evenings making all things appear dark in the old cottage; and all the land looked sombre too.

The very daylight seemed a sort of twilight; immeasurable clouds, passing slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at broad noon.  The wind blew constantly with the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane, despairing dirges; at other times the noise came close to the door, like the howling of wild beasts.

She had grown pale,—­aye, blanched,—­and bent more than ever; as if old age had already touched her with its featherless wing.  Often did she finger the wedding clothes of her Yann, folding them and unfolding them again and again like some maniac,—­especially one of his blue woolen jerseys which still had preserved his shape:  when she threw it gently on the table, it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed it by itself in a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that it might forever rest unaltered.