There was another young girl on the wharf, too, who had the air of looking for some one—a certain Suzanne Benoît, from l'Étang, three miles inshore, a very pretty girl, with a mild, appealing look in her brown eyes. Zabette had seen her often here and there; but she had no acquaintance with her. At the present moment, strangely enough, she felt herself powerfully drawn to this Suzanne. It came to her, somehow, that the girl had come thither on a mission similar to her own, she was so silent, and had not the look of those who had waited on the wharf in previous years. And so, one afternoon, when two vessels had rounded the Cape and were entering the harbor, amid a great hubbub of expectancy,—and neither of them was the Soleil,—Zabette surprised a look of woe in the face of the other which she could not resist. She went over to her, with some diffidence, and offered a few words of sympathy.
"You are waiting for some one, too?" she asked her.
The eyes of the other filled quickly to overflowing. "Yes," she answered. "He has not come yet."
"You must not worry," said Zabette, stoutly. "There are always delays, you know. Some are ahead; others behind; it is so every year."
The girl gave her a grateful look, and squeezed her hand. "It is a secret," she murmured.
Zabette smiled. "I have a secret too."
"Then we are waiting together," said Suzanne. "That makes it so much easier!"
They walked back to the street, arm in arm, as if they had always been bosom friends. And the next day they were both at the wharf again. The afternoon was bleak; but as usual they were in their best clothes.
"Oh, it does not seem as if I could wait any longer," whispered Suzanne, confidingly. "I do hope it will be the Soleil this time."
"The Soleil!" exclaimed Zabette, joyfully. "You are waiting for the Soleil?"