he two long, slender wings.

"The West Bay has its Promenade du Midi, and the East Bay has its
sea-wall," said Mrs. Clary. "I like a sea-wall."

"This one does not _approach_ that at St. Augustine," said Miss Graves.

"Here is one of the fountains or wells," said Mrs. Clary. "You will soon
see that going for water and gossiping at the well are two occupations
of the women everywhere in this region. It comes, I suppose, from the
scarcity of water, which is brought in pipes from long distances to
these wells, to which the women must go for all the water needed by
their households. Notice the classic shapes of the jugs and jars they
bear on their heads. Those green ones might be majolica."

We now turned up a paved ascent, and passing under a broad stone
archway, entered the "old town," through whose narrow, lane-like streets
no vehicle could be driven, through some of them hardly a donkey. The
principal avenue, the Rue Longue, but a few feet in width, was smoothly
paved and clean; but walking there was like being at the bottom of a
well, so far above and so narrow was the little ribbon of blue sky at
the top. Unbroken stone walls rose on each side, directly upon the
street, five and six stories in height, shutting out the sunshine; and
these tall gray walls were often joined above our heads also by arches,
"like uncelebrated bridges of sighs," Janet said. These closely built
continuous blocks were the homes of the native population, "old
Mentone," unspoiled by progress and strangers. The low doorways showed
stone steps ascending somewhere in the darkness, showed low-ceilinged
rooms, whose only light was from the door, where were mothers and
babies, men mending shoes, women sewing and occupied with household
tasks, as calmly as though daylight was not the natural atmosphere of
mankind, but rather their own dusky gloom. Outside the doors little
black-eyed children sat on the pavement, eating the dark sour bread of
the country, and here and there old women in circular white hats like
large dinner plates were spinning thread with distaff and spindle. Above
were some bits of color: pots of flowers on high window-sills,
bright-hued rags hung out to dry, or a dark-eyed girl, with red kerchief
tied over her black braids, looking down.

"It is all like a scene from an opera," said Janet.

"Oh no," said Mrs. Clary; "say rather that it is like a scene from the
Middle Ages."

"That is what I mean," said Janet. "The scenes in t