neither blind, lame, nor stupid--grâce au ciel, for he had his living to
get. As for the church, to him one church was very much like another:
and he would rather arrange a pyramid of strawberries than contemplate
the spires of his native Quimper."

So true is it that water will not rise above its own level--and perhaps
so merciful.

In due course we returned once more to our now old and familiar haunt,
Morlaix. We came back to it each time with our affection and admiration
heightened. Its old streets seem to grow more and more picturesque; and
more and more we appeared to absorb into our "inner consciousness" this
mediæval atmosphere. We seemed to be living in a perpetual romance of
the past; and the men and women who surrounded us were so many puppets
animated by invisible threads. It was the perfection of existence, in
its particular way and for a short time.

The shades of evening had fallen when we once more found ourselves
descending Jacob's Ladder. The Antiquarian's door was closed, but a
light gleamed through the crevices of the shutters, as antiquated as
some of his cherished possessions. We would not disturb him, though we
felt sorely inclined to lift the latch and look in upon the picturesque
interior. We imagined him perhaps telling his beads, his grey head bowed
before the crucifix which, artistically and religiously, was the object
of his veneration; mentally we saw the son bending over a plain piece of
wood, which gradually assumed a form and design that would make it a
thing of beauty for ever. By lifting the latch, all this would be
revealed, delight our eyes and refresh our spirit. But what more might
we see? The cherub probably was in bed, but the rift within the lute?
Ah, that was uncertain; we could not tell. So we thought we would leave