that, Mr. Hamel. Life is such a wonderful thing. One night," he
went on, dropping his voice and leaning a little forward in his
carriage--"it was just before, or was it just after I had fixed
that light--I was down here one dark winter night. There was a
great north wind and a huge sea running. It was as black as pitch,
but I heard a boat making for St. David's causeway strike on those
rocks just hidden in front there. I heard those fishermen shriek
as they went under. I heard their shouts for help, I heard their
death cries. Very terrible, Mr. Hamel! Very terrible!"

Hamel looked at the speaker curiously. Mr. Fentolin seemed
absorbed in his subject. He had spoken with relish, as one who
loves the things he speaks about. Quite unaccountably, Hamel
found himself shivering.

"It was their mother," Mr. Fentolin continued, leaning again a
little forward in his chair, "their mother whom I saw pass along
the beach just now--a widow, too, poor thing. She comes here
often--a morbid taste. She spoke to you, I think?"

"She spoke to me strangely," Hamel admitted. "She gave me the
impression of a woman whose brain had been turned with grief."

"Too true," Mr. Fentolin sighed. "The poor creature! I offered her
a small pension, but she would have none of it. A superior woman
in her way once, filled now with queer fancies," he went on, eyeing
Hamel steadily,--"the very strangest fancies. She spends her life
prowling about here. No one in the village even knows how she lives.
Did she speak of me, by-the-by?"