low of some lord of the meadow.

"It is only cotton," I alleged, hurriedly; "and cheaper, and washes
better than any other colour."

"Et Mademoiselle Lucy est coquette comme dix Parisiennes," he answered.
"A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Regardez plutot son chapeau,
et ses gants, et ses brodequins!" These articles of dress were just
like what my companions wore; certainly not one whit smarter--perhaps
rather plainer than most--but Monsieur had now got hold of his text,
and I began to chafe under the expected sermon. It went off, however,
as mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passes on a summer day. I
got but one flash of sheet lightning in the shape of a single bantering
smile from his eyes; and then he said, "Courage!--a vrai dire je ne
suis pas fache, peut-etre meme suis je content qu'on s'est fait si
belle pour ma petite fete."

"Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, Monsieur--elle n'est que propre."

"J'aime la proprete," said he. In short, he was not to be dissatisfied;
the sun of good humour was to triumph on this auspicious morning; it
consumed scudding clouds ere they sullied its disk.

And now we were in the country, amongst what they called "les bois et
les petits sentiers." These woods and lanes a month later would offer
but a dusty and doubtful seclusion: now, however, in their May
greenness and morning repose, they looked very pleasant.

We reached a certain well, planted round, in the taste of Labassecour,
with an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt was called; on the
green swell of ground surrounding this well, we were ordered to be
seated, Monsieur taking his place in our midst, and suffering us to
gather in a knot round him. Those who liked him more than they feared,
came close, and these were chiefly little ones; those who feared more
than they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had
given, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed the
greatest distance.

He began to tell us a story. Well could he narrate: in such a diction
as children love, and learned men emulate; a diction simple in its
strength, and strong in its simplicity. There were beautiful touches in
that little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of description
that, while I listened, sunk into my mind, and since have never faded.
He tinted a twilight scene--I hold it in memory still--such a picture I
have never looked on from artist's pencil.

I have said, that, for myself,