had been taken by a French privateer; and so they had not arrived in
Jersey. But of course she had told her grandfather and all the island of
the ceremony performed at St. Michael's. He was sending her fifty
pounds, his first contribution to their home; and, the war over, a pretty
new home she certainly should have. He would write to her grandfather
again, though this day there was no time to do so.

Guida realised now that she must announce the marriage at once. But what
proofs of it had she? There was the ring Philip had given her, inscribed
with their names; but she was sophisticated enough to know that this
would not be adequate evidence in the eyes of her Jersey neighbours. The
marriage register of St. Michael's, with its record, was stolen, and that
proof was gone. Lastly, there were Philip's letters; but no--a thousand
times no!--she would not show Philip's letters to any human being; even
the thought of it hurt her delicacy, her self-respect. Her heart burned
with fresh bitterness to think that there had been a secret marriage.
How hard it was at this distance of time to tell the world the tale, and
to be forced to prove it by Philip's letters. No, no, in spite of all,
she could not do it--not yet. She would still wait the arrival of his
letter to her grandfather. If it did not come soon, then she must be
brave and tell her story.

She went to the Vier Marchi less now. Also fewer folk stood gossiping
with her grandfather in the Place du Vier Prison, or by the well at the
front door--so far he had not wondered why. To be sure, Maitresse
Aimable came oftener; but, since that notable day at Sark, Guida had
resolutely avoided reference, however oblique, to Philip and herself.
In her dark days the one tenderly watchful eye upon her was that of the
egregiously fat old woman called the "Femme de Ballast," whose thick
tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, whose outer attractions were so