give on canvas the
gray shade of the long aisles without making them dim, and they are not
in the least dim. I have noticed, too, that the sunshine never filters
through sufficiently to touch the ground in a glancing beam, or even a
single point of yellow light; and yet the leaves are small, and the
foliage does not appear thick."

Baker: "Olives and olive oil, the groundwork of every good dinner! I
wonder how much a grove would cost?"

Mrs. Trescott: "How they murmur to us--like doves! My one regret now is
that I did not name my child Olive. She would then have been so
Biblical."

Inness: "I should think more of the groves if I did not know that they
were fertilized with woollen rags, old boots, and bones."

Janet: "The inside tint of the leaves would be lovely for a summer
costume. I have never had just that shade."

Miss Graves: "Live-oak groves draped in long moss are much more
imposing."

Miss Elaine: "It is so jolly, you know, to sit under the trees with
one's embroidery, and have some one read aloud--something sweet, like
Adelaide Procter."

Margaret: "Sitting here is like being in a great cathedral in Lent."

Lloyd: "Shall we go quietly on, Miss Severin?"

And Lloyd, I think, had the best of it. I mean that he knew how to
derive the most pleasure from the groves. This English use of "quietly,"
by-the-way, always amused Margaret and myself greatly. Lloyd and Verney
were constantly suggesting that we should go here or there "quietly," as
though otherwise we should be likely to go with banners, trumpets, and
drums. The longer one remains in Mentone, the stronger grows attachment
to the olive groves. But they do not seem fit places for the young,
whose gay voices resound through their gray aisles; neither are they for
the old, who need the cheer and warmth of the sun. But they are for the
middle-aged, those who are beyond the joys and have not yet reached the
peace of life, the poor, unremembered, hard-worked middle-aged. The
olives of Mentone are small, and used only for making oil. We saw them
gathered: men were beating the boughs with long poles, while old women
and children collected the dark purple berries and placed them in sacks,
which the patient donkeys bore to the mill. The oil mills are venerable
and picturesque little buildings of stone, placed in the ravines where
there is a stream of water. We visited one on the side hill; its only
light came from the open door, and its interior made a pictu