It is an interesting sight to observe the fishermen's families in Catholic countries crowding the jetty or shore, when the turn of the tide is about to bring in the little fleet. In stormy weather, groups at the foot of

they are sure to be found in the Calvary, with uplifted hands, sometimes with streaming eyes, awaiting the issue of the tempest; and striving, by the sacrifice of their scanty means in offerings to the Church, to propitiate the Disposer of the storm. But when the lightsome waves are rippling under a summer sky, and all is serene and promising, the fisherwomen and their amphibious progeny station themselves on the stones of the pier, or on their upturned empty baskets, speculating, in the least harmonious of voices accustomed to outscream the wintry wind, and predominate over the roaring of the surge, upon the chances of the day; disposing beforehand of imaginary turbots, and foreseeing draughts of mackarel all but miraculous.

A few years ago, the saunterers upon the sands, or rather shingles, of Calais were often struck by a group, differing from the noisy throng watching the return of the fishing-boats, in so far that they were stationary even when wind and tide were set against the arrival of the boats. Whether the smacks were far out of sight, or at anchor within range of shore, either in the still moonlight or the equally silvery tranquillity of an early summer

morning, there they loitered, almost under the shadow of Fort Rouge-a man, a woman, and occasionally a young girl, stretched at lazy length among the fragments of broken vessels, old capstans, splintered masts, bulkheads, and spars, abounding on the spot.

Yet there was nothing prosperous in their appearance to account for this undue luxury of leisure. Their garments were worn, their countenances wasted and sorrowful. Even the girl, though her naked feet had not lost the elastic tread of youth upon the sand, used to look wistfully back upon her parents as she bore along her mother's shrimping-net and basket, as if trying to beguile the poor woman into some wiser occupation than sitting with folded hands watching the vacant looks or unquiet gestures of her husband.

But she was not to be persuaded away, even by the guileless arts of the poor child. Françoise knew that her place was there; that the thriftlessness which made her meals so spare and her pallet so hard, was a bounden duty. She was accomplishing woman's mission upon earth- the task of consolation!

The man was her husband. But though often from sunrise to nightfall not a word of kindness broke from his parched lips to cheer the dreariness of her life, his silent moroseness was no offence. He was mad

heartbroken dying; and she

fancied that his madness and misery were her work!

Three years before, Pierre Romeny and his wife were a happy, thriving couple. No brighter scarlet skirts, no richer cross of gold or pendent earrings, no wider Valenciennes frilling disposed in plaits upon the bronzed neck, appeared on fête days at early mass, or, on Sunday afternoons, on the jetty of Calais, than those of Françoise, paraded on the arm of her stout helpmate, and marshalling before her a little Françoise and little Pierre, as hearty and happy as themselves. The boy, more especially, was one of those sunny-faced creatures upon whom the eye of the stranger delights to dwell. Many an English family, disembarking on the pier of Calais, used to fling their first franc to the brighteyed sailor-boy, whose gladsome countenance seemed like a favourable omen for their tour. their little gains, as well as the earnings of his calling, were deposited with his parents. Good, duteous, thankful, the child had no existence save in them; adoring his mother, and obeying his father, as tenderly as they loved him in return. The little warm-hearted fellow appeared to be the bond uniting in stedfast harmony the thriving household of the Romenys.

All

One autumn, however, a series of stormy, equinoctial weather brought idleness, and consequently need and suffering, to the fishing population of the

French coast, and, as if wantonly to aggravate the evils of the hour, Pierre Romeny seized upon the season of adversity to indulge in vices for which he never before evinced a propensity. To beguile his disappointments, he betook himself to drink and dominos, squandering at the estaminet the means which had become doubly precious to his family. Remorse was now added to his miseries. He was ashamed to return home. He dreaded the reproaches of his prudent wife; he dreaded the uncomplaining depression of his hungry children; and, encouraged by the evil counsels of those who found their profit in his folly, again drank, again gamed, again swore and blasphemed, while the angry winds howled round the resort of intemperance, as if mocking or menacing the offender.

Again and again did poor Françoise present herself at the door, imploring him to return home. Her entreaties were met at first by sullen silence, at length with threats and imprecations; and when, in the despair of her soul, she ventured to despatch her beloved boy on the same errand, in the hope that his open honest countenance would work its way to the heart of the erring but not yet hardened man, Romeny, infuriated by drink and shame, seized the little fellow by the hair and dashed him furiously against the wall. On recovering from that stunning blow, young Pierre, pale and heartbroken, went his way out of the

estaminet without a word. His only care was to efface all trace of his sufferings before he reached the presence of his mother, to whom he uttered not a syllable of his father's ill-usage.

Romeny did not return home that night. Early next morning, Françoise hazarded another visit of remonstrance. She had to tell him that the Jeannette, of which he was part owner and master mariner, was preparing to leave the port; that there was a lull, that his comrades were all astir-that he must be at his post. But the dull eyes of the drunkard stared upon her as though he knew her not, proving that her words were spoken in vain. He spent that day as he had spent the preceding night, lying stupified under the wooden benches of the estaminet.

For two preceding years the boy had formed part of the crew of the Jeannette. Carefully watched and instructed by his father, little Pierre was proverbial among his mates for his courage and activity; and already it was predicted by the older sailors that he would make as brave and expert a mariner as his father. Upon his mother's return from the wine-house, as if apprized by her swollen eyelids how matters stood, he folded her a moment in his fond but rough embrace, whispering a fervent but rough entreaty that she would thenceforward look to him as the support of her future years. Then, with a hasty kiss to his little