Weakness had triumphed over strength. Blame him--he was worthy of blame;
but, pausing for a moment, may it not be said that nine men out of ten
would have decided as did Noël McAllister?

"Oh! my mother, you know I shall write every week. Do not distress
yourself. Marie, good-bye. Remember always it was you who bade me go.
Good-bye, Monsieur Gourdon. Good-bye, Jean."

He was off at last, and the steamer moved out from the pier. How bitter
these partings are and how hard to bear, but the thought crossed M.
Bois-le-Duc's mind just then that there were worse things than partings.

"Take me home," said Madame McAllister. "I cannot stay here watching my
boy disappear."

She was terribly distressed, and the curé and Jean Gourdon led her home.
No one seemed to think of Marie. She had disappeared behind a huge pile
of lumber, and had sat down to rest on a great log. There she sat for she
knew not how long; she seemed unconscious, oblivious of all, save that
tiny black speck which was sinking lower and lower on the horizon.
Finally it disappeared down the great waste of interminable ocean.

The sun set, and the air grew chill; the tide rose high; the curlews
hovered round with their weird cries; the Angelus from the church came
wafted across the waters, faint and sweet in its distant music, and the
laborers in the fields paused a moment in their tasks to do homage to the
Holy Maiden in murmured prayers. But Marie Gourdon heard none of these
sounds, felt not the cold of the evening air. Her senses were benumbed,
and she was only conscious of a dull, aching pain.