Henry accompanied the old man on his walk back to the village—and they conversed in cultivated and stilted French of philosophy and of Breton fisher-folk, and of the strange, melancholy type they seemed to have.
"They look ever out to sea," the priest said; "they are watching the deep waters and are conscious forever of their own and loved ones' dangers—they are de braves gens."
"It seems so wonderful that anything so young and full of life as Mrs. Howard should have been drawn to live in such an isolated place, does it not, mon père?" Henry asked. "It seems incongruous."
"When she came first she was very sad. She had cause for much sorrow, the dear child—and the sea was her mate; together she and I, with the sea, have studied many things. She deserves happiness, Monsieur, her soul is as pure and as generous as an angel's—if Monsieur knew what she does for my poor people and for all who come under her care!"
"It will be the endeavor of my life to make her happy, Father," and Lord Fordyce's voice was full of feeling.
"Happiness can only be secured in two ways, my son. Either it comes in the guise of peace, after the flames have burnt themselves out—or it comes through fusion of love at fever heat——"
"Yes?" Henry faltered, rather anxiously.
"When there are still some cinders alight—the peaceful happiness is not quite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with some risks."
"What makes you say this to me?"
The old priest did not look at him, but continued to gaze ahead.