pier, where my poor fishermen are, and which
I think is as favourite a walk of yours as it is
of mine. I should have been a sailor, if I had
not been what I am. The sea is the purest
thing on this earth."

West remained silent. He felt a curious
charm in listening to this clergyman.

"I speak freely," said the abbé, "because
our cloth has that privilege. But I remember
your kindly and secret charity to that poor
French lady and her daughters. I dare say
you thought no one here knew it. It was that
which made me take interest in M. Vaist and
his family, though I am afraid your sister— No
matter. It is that interest which makes me
speak a little freely, as I would to one of my
flock, and say how distressed I am to see you
so changed."

West smiled bitterly. "Ah! I see! I
suppose the story has reached you. I dare say you
are amused. But, as you have learned by this
time, it is easy to advise, easy to convince a
fool of his folly; but he remains a fool still."

"It is human nature, dear sir; yes, the nature
of morning, noon, and night; of every month
and every year. Alas! sir, with us, who sit and
listen to the weaknesses, sins, and sorrows, it is
only the old, old story. With our French
here," he added, with a sigh, "it all runs to
that one song— women, men, girls, youths—
misery, ruin, or what they fancy misery and ruin,
all coming from what they call love. My dear
sir, you will not be angry with me: at least I
speak to a practical, sensible Englishman—"

West almost startled him by a loud laugh.
"Practical and sensible, indeed! But, my good
abbé, it is of no use—with me, at least."

"I would not say to you," continued the abbé,
gently, "what I would say to others— to pray;
pray hard, and long, and fast. That is the
simplest remedy of all. You do not belong to us.
But I would repeat, 'Laborare est orare'—
work, occupation, interest. A little exertion—
only a little—and the thing is begun; and
what is begun is half done. Love! never was
there anything so unreal. It is all ourself.
We think it is all for another. It is a mere
tone and temper of the mind—all selfish, I am
afraid— a dream, a phantom. I am your friend,
and have a privilege," he added, touching his
hands. "I have dealt with thousands—with
men of your standing, and have treated them
with that medicine, laborare. For a few days
it is irksome, bitter; but, believe one who
has experience, it will succeed. Go about,
enjoy the blessings of life, lay out your day,
take your share in what is going on about you,
and you will find yourself drawn into being
interested. Then go to your own home; leave
this place—a little unworthy of you; follow
your noble profession. There is an old man's
talisman. It will not fail. Good night, dear
M. Vaist."

West wrung his hand and thanked him.
Those earnest words had inspired him with
confidence. He seemed to awake. " It is
contemptible, and he was right. It is a selfish
and personal thing. I have been behaving like
a boy. In love with a child! They all have
the story, it seems. Good Heavens, that I
should have had so little care for my own dignity
and self-respect! What folly! What a dream!
'Laborare est orare.' He is right, and there
can be no harm trying."

He went to rest with that chime in his ears.
He slept better, and came down, as we have
seen, with a hope and purpose in his face.

After breakfast he went out, saw gaily dressed
peasants and fishermen walking in one direction,
and, asking the reason, was told it was the Fair
of St. Peray. Here was acceptable news!
Here was something to interest him; and he
set off to the little show with cheerfulness and
purpose.

"I shall make a day of it," he called out
cheerfully," and spend two or three hours.
Then we shall go and see the packet come
in, and—what do you say?—dine at the table
d'hôte of the Royal, and show a little life and
human nature to Constance."

"Blessings on that good abbé!" said
Constance, devoutly. "His prayers have done this."
And though a faint shade of sternness passed
over Margaret's face at his name, she said,
graciously, "He is a very good man, I believe."
The Calvinism passed away. He left two happy
women behind.

CHAPTER XXV. THE FAIR

ON that same morning, Vivian, who was fast
regaining his strength and nearly restored, only
growing a little fatigued towards the end of the
day, came across joyfully. "That charming little
Mrs. Jaques tells me there is to be a fair at
the village; and she has got Jaques a holiday,
and they are going off so smart and brilliant!
We must go too: it will amuse you."

Lucy delighted in an expedition of this
sort, and clapped her hands with enthusiasm.
"Oh, we must go," she cried. "I would not
miss it for the world."

"What is it, my hero?" said Mr. Dacres,
entering. "There is some fun up, I am sure.
Out with it, Vivy! Tell yours to command— "

"Only think, Harco, a fair, a little fair, out
at St. Peray. Shan't we go? Oh, we must."

"Must me no musts, miss," answered Dacres,
sternly. "So there's a fair, is there? 'None
but the brave deserve the fair'—eh, colonel?
That's neat. Good jury-box wit."

"But what do you say, Harco?"

"Go, of course, my podgets. In this dry
sandy valley we call life, it has been my maxim
never to pass such little scraps and patches of
grass as we may meet. Let us three make a
party and go."

So they did, and set off. It was a charming
day, bright and cheerful, lightening even the
monotonous French high road along which they
walked for a short time. Presently they struck
into the fields, which, indeed, about here, were
pleasantly cut up with tracks and footpaths, the
farmers about being pastoral, and good natured
also. The fair was four or five miles away,