Seldom had a day of Guida's life been so busy. It seemed to her that
people came and went far more than usual. She talked, she laughed a
little, she answered back the pleasantries of the seafaring folk who
passed her doorway or her garden. She was attentive to her grandfather;
exact with her household duties. But all the time she was thinking--
thinking--thinking. Now and again she smiled, but at times too tears
sprang to her eyes, to be quickly dried. More than once she drew in her
breath with a quick, sibilant sound, as though some thought wounded her;
and she flushed suddenly, then turned pale, then came to her natural
colour again.

Among those who chanced to visit the cottage was Maitresse Aimable. She
came to ask Guida to go with her and Jean to the island of Sark, twelve
miles away, where Guida had never been. They would only be gone one
night, and, as Maitresse Aimable said, the Sieur de Mauprat could very
well make shift for once.

The invitation came to Guida like water to thirsty ground. She longed to
get away from the town, to be where she could breathe; for all this day
the earth seemed too small for breath: she gasped for the sea, to be
alone there. To sail with Jean Touzel was practically to be alone,
for Maitresse Aimable never talked; and Jean knew Guida's ways, knew when
she wished to be quiet. In Jersey phrase, he saw beyond his spectacles--
great brass-rimmed things, giving a droll, childlike kind of wisdom to
his red rotund face.

Having issued her invitation, Maitresse Aimable smiled placidly and
seemed about to leave, when, all at once, without any warning, she
lowered herself like a vast crate upon the veille, and sat there looking