The sun was declining as we left Guimiliau, the church and its monuments
forming a very singular composition against the background of the sky as
we turned and gave it a farewell look. One scarcely analysed the reason,
but there was almost an effect of heathendom about it, as if it dated
from some remote age, when visible objects were worshipped, and the sun
and the moon and dragons and grotesques took a prominent place in
religion.

The sun was declining and twilight was beginning to creep over the land.
It threw out in greater relief the wayside crosses that we passed on the
road, solemnising the scene, and insensibly leading the mind to
contemplation; all the beauty, all the mystery of our faith, the lights
and shadows of our earthly pilgrimage, so typified by the days and
nights of creation; and the "one far-off divine event" which concerns us
all.

When we entered Morlaix the sun had set; table d'hôte was not over, and
we knew that Catherine had our places and our welfare in her special
keeping; and the driver having done his best on the road, and having
fallen asleep not more than five times on his box, we forgot our
threat, and dismissed him with a _pourboire_, for which he returned us a
Breton benediction.

[Illustration: BRITTANY PEASANTS.]

Once again the next day was kindly, the sun shone, the sky was
unclouded. These are rare days in Brittany, which, surrounded on three
sides by water, lives in an atmosphere that is always damp and too often
gloomy and depressing.