"You see," said Sweetheart impulsively, "that you are wrong. Give him
our fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow." I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out to
the poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. Then
I said, "These are dace, and they don't have red spots." He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on my
oars, saying: "You're a poacher; but I don't care a continental, and
you can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is about
one trout to the kilometre. Don't look scared. What do I care? Only
don't tell me I'm unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tip
of his nose." I then sailed majestically out into the stream. Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher. She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart,
eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition toward
assassination. The reality shocked her. "Anyway," she said, "you frightened the poor old thing. How rough men
are!" We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide was
still on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were in
a fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mud
and lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man who
rented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands,
and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for the
hotel. We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap which
was to bear us to our destination--the distant village of Faöuet, in
Morbihan. X. A long drive on a smooth white road, acres of gorse and broom, beech
woods and oak thickets, and the "Heu! heu! Allo! Allons! en route!" of
the Breton driver, these are my recollections of the ride to Faöuet. There are others, too--the hedges heavy with bloom, the perfume of the
wild honeysuckle, the continual bird chorus from every grove and every
bramble patch--and Sweetheart's veil flying into my face. We have spoken of it since together, but she has few recollections
of that journey. She only remembers it as her first steps into our
heritage. And so we entered into our heritage, Sweetheart and I; and our heritage
was very fair, for it lay everywhere about us. It was a world which
we alone inhabited. Men said, "This land is Gloanec's," "This is
Gurnalec's," "This is Kerdec's"; they spoke of "my woods" and "his
meadows" and "their pastures." And how we laughed; for when we passed
together through their lands, around us, far as the eye could reach,
our heritage lay in the sunshine. XI. One day, when Sweetheart had been weeping--for we were thinking of the
end to the magic second--I spoke of our heritage which swept far as the
eye could reach across the moors of Faöuet. She said: "The past is ours, Jack; the present is ours; the future----"

We tried to smile, but our hearts were like lead. Yet we know that the
future will also be ours. I know it as I write. XII. The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, lay
on the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me. "I'm in favour of going at once," I said for the third time. Over by
the wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faöuet. The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancient
orchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with that
canvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came over
and stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his
"Good-morning," I recalled the pang his next words gave me:

"I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the convent
grounds." My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, "my
despair was great!" A month's work for nothing--or next to nothing! Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree and
came over to my side. "Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the Mother
Superior about it." I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, that
evening, she came back radiant, crying, "She is lovely!--she says you
may finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her," I
put on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate. The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticed
windows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisible
nun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working in
the orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almost
time to cut it. "I am sure we may have confidence in you," she said. "We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both." The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell. "You are English," said the hidden nun. "I am American, my sister." I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have been
mistaken, but I think she sighed. Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks. There was a pause. Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: "May Our Lady of Saint
Gildas protect you"; and we went out by the little iron wicket. The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; the
next, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of the
same young lady. The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window which
overlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within,
the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures were
advancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now knelt
behind. I didn't think I had any business to look at them, so I did
not. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hot
nights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speaking
beside my shoulder. "Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will never
see parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they never
leave--never; they are buried there." I said: "After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we have
nothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound by
vows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage." "But our heritage is everywhere--as far as we can see." "Ah, yes, but we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond." "I have renounced it," said Sweetheart faintly. XIII. The letter from St. Gildas had been lying on our table for a week
before I thought of answering it, and even then it was Sweetheart who
wrote:

     "DEAR MR. STUART:

     "Jack is too lazy to answer your kind note, so, in pure shame
     for his discourtesy, I hasten to reply to your questions. "First: Yes; we have been working very hard, and Jack's
     pictures are charming, though he growls over them all day. "Second: Yes; we intend to stay in Brittany this winter for
     lots of reasons--one being economy, and another, Jack's
     outdoor painting. "Third: Yes; we are coming to St. Gildas. "Fourth: To-morrow.