known all the years of his short existence; and while
he still stood there an uncertain gleam appeared from
Eusebe's half-open doorway — without doubt he had
iust staggered home from the port and was fumblingly
trying to light a candle. And Christophe felt grateful
towards these things, for they came as a balm to his
understanding — they were crude, simple, homely,
everyday things; aye, even the drunken old sandal-
maker.
Then turning he flung himself onto the bed and
began to cry weakly: 'Mireio . . .' he sobbed, for
the wound of her passing was not yet healed, 'Mireio,
come back from God; I want you!' But after a little
his sobs died away and he lay there quite motion-
less. He was sleeping.