The daily morning journal and courier., 1905-08-12
YVES THE FISHERMAN.

what it was to have a mother or a father. much less a single friend. His regular features and proud carriage i told of noble blood.
 The men in the village hated him be- cause he was a stranger and because his courage was greater than their own and they were jealous, too, be- cause his good looks pleased the women. Both men and women feared him. Why he did not know or care.
 Yves lived in a stone cabin that he had built himself. During the winter, l when the fishing season was at an end, he carved little boats and playthings | that he sold during the season to the tourists And because he never spent his money in getting drunk at the tav- ern, the villagers called him stingy
 Furthermore, they hated him because, one terrible night during the equinoctial gale, when not a single sailor dared to go out, Yves went alone in his light boat to the rescue of a schooner upon the rocks. After that they redoubled; but hatred is not enough to kill a man who desires to live.
 1 One evening, it was three years after the rescue of the schooner. Yves was alone in his cabin when he heard feeble cries outside his door. It was in winter and a cruel wind was making the snowtiakes dance in great white swirls on the coal beach.
 Yves opened his door. Crouched upon the sill he saw woman and lit- tie girl huddled closely together and moaning pitifully. Yves carried them into the house, and piling the wood on the fire, prepared a great bed of sea- weed for them in one corner. But the woman had suffered too long from the lack of food and the cold, | Early the next day she died. Then that fellow Yves adopted the little girl, frail figure of 13, with big pleading brown eyes. Her name was Margari- I ton
 After this winter night new life l began for the lonely Yves. To him Margariton became a whole family. | She was society, she was his daughter, his sister, his companion, his friend; she was his idol, before whom he prostrated himself in perpetual adora- tion.
 There was nothing too good for her, | and the money he had earned so pain 1 fully was scattered gladly for the finest stuffs for dresses and beautiful lace and gold chains. Margariton might well have become selfish in the midst of such loving worship, but there was no room for aught save grateful affection in her warm little heart. 1 Not far from their cabin the rocky cliffs, slOping gently on either side | made room for tiny beach of finest sand, where in one corner rose a stream of purest water
 4 One summer afternoon Margariton, her pitcher poised upon her head, was I following the narrow path that led to ] the spring when she heard voice call 1 ing to her. Turning, half frightened, l she saw a young man, an artist, sitting I on the rocks before his easel. | For moment the painter stood lost in admiration of the beauty of the girl ! before him; then, as she was about to ! hasten on, he stretched out both hands, pleadingly, regardless of the fact that he was still holding his palette and brushes, and cried:
 Young lady, I beg and entreat you to remain just where you are without moving if only for an instant!' Gladly" said Maragariton, blushing rosily.
 The painter immediately disappeared behind his canvas and the brushes flew fast as he worked. Half an hour later he asked his model to inspect his first sketch
 r Margariton hastened to his side, her curiosity stronger than her fear. At the sight fthe canvas on the easel she stopped short in ecstacy, without a word to express her rapturous admira- tion.
 "Ah, my beautiful stranger! This means the salon for me-" cried the ar- tist, enthusiastically. Tell me will you come back tomorrow at this same time? And what is your name?"
 Margariton," replied the girl shyly, as she nodded her head in consent
 The next day Margariton was prompt at the meeting. She had not said any, thing to Yves of her chance encounter with the stranger, nor of her promise, 4NOI tlldt SIlc ISlL IIldJ SIlb ldu uOD6 wrong but from quick instinct of prudence, as if it were presentiment of the pain she might cause her brother. It was the first secret there had ever been between them.
 A week passed and still another week, and if the portrait had not ad- vanced it was different with the friend ship between the artist and his model Friendship? Nay, Jean Vermeuil knew well enoughit was no mere feeling of friendship that made his heart beat so hard at the sight of the beautiful girl
 He loved her with all the strength of his being, and resolved that, could he win her love, he would marry her But what of the brother Yves, to whom Margariton owed such a debt of gratitude? What would he say? The villagers, who had known from