This is especially true of Morlaix. Much that was old-world and lovely
has gone for ever, and day by day something more is disappearing.

We sallied forth, but unaccompanied by Misery, who was hard at work in
the hotel, preparing us rooms wherein, as he expressed it, we should
that night lodge as Christians. Whether, last night, he had put us down
as Mahometans, Fire Worshippers, or heathens of some other denomination,
he did not say.

The town had lost the sense of weirdness and mystery thrown over it by
the darkness. The solemn midnight silence had given place to the
activity of work and daylight; all shops were open, all houses unclosed;
people were hurrying to and fro. Our strange little procession of three
was no more, and André carrying a flaring candle would have been
anything but a picturesque object in the sunshine.

But what was lost of weirdness and mystery was more than made up by the
general effect of the town, by the minute details everywhere visible, by
the sense of life and movement. Usually the little town is quiet and
somewhat sleepy; to-day the inhabitants were roused out of their Breton
lethargy by the presence of so many strangers amongst them, and by the
fact of its being market day.

More than even last night, we were impressed by the wonderful outlines
of the Grand' Rue, where the lattice had been lighted up and the
mysterious vision had received a revelation in gazing upon H.C. To-day
behind the lattice there was comparative darkness, and the vision had
descended to a lower region, and the unromantic occupation of opening a
roll of calico and displaying its advantages to a market woman who was