"The Soleil will be delaying at St. Esprit for two weeks," he explained, as they walked along, hand in hand. "She put in for some repairs. By the end of that time, perhaps"—
"Oh, no, not so soon as that," she interrupted. "We must let a longer while pass first."
She gazed at him yearningly. "You will be returning by here in the autumn, at the end of the season on the Banks?"
"We are taking on three men from St. Esprit," he answered. "We shall stop here on the return to set them ashore. That will be in October, near the end of the month, if the season is good."
She sighed, as if dreading some disaster; and they looked at each other again, and the look ended in a kiss. It is not by words, that new love feeds and grows.
Before they reached the Grande Anse he quitted her; but he gave her his promise to come again that evening. He did—that evening, and two evenings later, and so on, every other evening for those two weeks. Zabette's old mother took a great fancy to him, and gave him every encouragement; but the old père Fuseau, who had sailed many a voyage, in younger days, round the Horn, would never speak a good word for him—and perhaps his hostility only increased the girl's attachment.
"A little grease is all very well for the hair of a young man," he would say. "But this scented pomade they use nowadays—pah!"
"You object then to a sailor's being a gentleman?" demanded the girl haughtily.
"Yes, I do," roared the old père Fuseau. "Have a care, Zabette."