86 GOLDEN DAYS 



corners almost tremble. As his smile 

 breaks it mingles with her own. . . . 



In some such day-dream Jean found 

 me on the hillside. He spoke no word, 

 but ever and anon his thoughts plucked 

 at the corners of his mouth. We packed 

 our rods in silence, and with the last of 

 the twilight started off up the steep track 

 to the open landes above. Here the 

 first evening star was shining, reflected in 

 a moorland tarn, and far away on the 

 sky-line loomed the long, low farmstead 

 of Sezny. Why this lonely pile of ancient 

 stone should have been given the name 

 of a Breton saint even Jean Pierre could 

 not tell, but he gave me the saint's whole 

 history as we tramped home across the 

 moors. It seems that this St. Sezny — 

 or should we call him " Mr." or " Brother," 

 as he only becomes a saint later in the 

 story ? — was one of the first men who 

 came from Ireland to preach the " true 

 faith " to the Bretons. On the very first 

 night of his arrival he seems to have 

 fallen out with the rich farmer of the 

 district, who refused to give him a night's 

 lodging. Nothing daunted. Brother 



