wths which, like the bog-myrtle of Scotland, smell
sweet all the year.

The three men saluted their house-guest sedately by kissing Claire on
the forehead. To the Professor, as to an older friend with additional
privileges, she presented also her cheek. From the head of the table,
which was hers by right, Madame Amelie surveyed tolerantly yet sharply
this interchange of civilities.

"Have done, children," she said, "the soup waits."

And as of all things the soup of the Mas of Collioure must not be kept
waiting, all made haste to bring themselves to their places. Then the
Senora, glancing about to see that all were in a fit and reverent frame
of mind, prepared to say grace. "_Bene_----Don Jordy!" she interrupted
sharply, "you may be a good man of the law, and learned in Papal bulls
and seals, but the Grace of God is scant in you. You are thinking more
of that young maid than of your Maker! Cross yourself reverently, Don
Jordy, or no spoonful of soup do you eat at my table to-night."

Don Jordy (which is, of course, to say George) did as his mother bade
him. For the little black-eyed old lady was a strict disciplinarian, and
none crossed her will in the Mas of Collioure. Yes, these three
grey-headed men, each with a man's work in the world behind him, as soon
as they crossed the threshold became again all of an age--the age their
mother wished them to be, when she had them running like wild goats
among the flocks and herds of La Masane. Happy that rare mother whose
sons never quite grow up.

After the first deep breathings, and the sigh of satisfaction with which
it was the custom to pay homage to the excellent pottage of Madame
Amelie, the second brother, Jean-Marie, Alcalde of Collioure, a quiet
smile defining the flour dust in the wrinkles of his grave countenance
(it was not his day for shaving), looked across at Claire Agnew and
said, "I thought mayhap you might have come to see me to-day. I was down
at the Fanal Mill, and----"

"There are finer things to be seen at Elne," interrupted the Bishop's
notary, "to wit, cloisters, an organ, and fine pictured books on
vellum."

"Pshaw!" cried his brother, "it is better in the mills--what with
whirling sails, the sleepy clatter of the wheels, and the grinding
stones, with the meal pouring down its funnel like a mine of gold."

"Ah," sighed the lawyer, "but I wearied to-day among my parchments. The
sight of you has spoilt us. A day without you is as long as one of C