The mischief all comes of the stuff old Antoine filled her head with--a stray little by-blow of chickweed that he cockered up like a rare carnation.

Oh! do not fly in a rage, Jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue.
Take heart of grace, and praise the saints, and marry Katto's Lisa." But Jeannot would never listen to the slanderers, and would never look at Lisa, even though the door of the little hut was always closed against him; and whenever he met Bebee on the highway she never seemed to see him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading.
One night in the midwinter-time old Annemie died.
Bebee found her in the twilight with her head against the garret window, and her left side all shrivelled and useless.

She had a little sense left, and a few fleeting breaths to draw.
"Look for the brig," she muttered.

"You will not see the flag at the masthead for the fog to-night; but his socks are dry and his pipe is ready.

Keep looking--keep looking--she will be in port to-night." But her dead sailor never came into port; she went to him.