t was the night of Christmas Eve and the snow fell thick and fast. This weather, so unusual in the Channel Isles, had delayed Perrin Corbet in the little town of Saint Pierre Port, and it was past ten o'clock when he reached home. His mother had gone to bed, but not before she had prepared her son's supper and left the little kitchen the picture of comfort. After his meal, Perrin turned the lamp low, lit his pipe, and sat down in his mother's arm-chair before the vraicq fire. The wind moaned in the huge chimney, with a cradling sound, but Perrin was not in the least inclined to sleep. To-morrow would be his wedding day. He could not realize it; he could not believe he would so soon reach the height of joy. He tried to picture to-morrow. Ellenor, in the white gown she had described to him, would stand before the altar, and he, her devoted lover, would take her hand and declare, before God and before the world, that she was to be his wife.
Then, the rest of the day would be spent in quiet joy at Les Casquets Cottage, with his mother as the only guest of the Cartiers. He pictured the moment when he would say, taking out his watch, "Now, mother, now, Ellenor, it is time for us to go home."
He would light the lantern, and with those two women, so dear, so precious, he would return to this very cottage, henceforth to be a palace to him, since Ellenor, his queen, would be his wife. He would deal so tenderly with her, for she had suffered much, his poor Ellenor! He would never reproach her if she seemed to fret after Dominic. She could not uproot, all at once, such a deep love. He would lead her gently back to the ways of religion which she had deserted. He would remind her, one quiet evening, that she was of those who were admitted to The Holy Supper of the Lord, for had she not been confirmed at the same time as he had? And, please God, she would listen to him. Perhaps, in days to come, she would learn to love him a little. Perhaps that joy would be his when baby hands clasped his rough brown fingers and a rosy baby mouth kissed his adoring lips!
His pipe was out; and his head was bent as he dreamed of the morrow, his wedding day. For a moment, the wind had ceased its moaning and a deep stillness enfolded the cottage.
Suddenly, a sharp tap rang through the kitchen. Perrin started, his dreams scattered. He listened, breathless, his island blood frozen, his Celtic temperament at once calling up visions of the supernatural.
Again the tap sounded on the window; and this time, a familiar voice re-assured Perrin.
"Let me in, Corbet, quick, I bring bad news."
In a moment Cartier stood in the kitchen and cried breathlessly,
"Have you seen Ellenor? She hasn't been home since early this afternoon!"