ow night
shall see most of the sketches hung and the rugs beaten--that is again
something, eh? Then there will be only the brass and the andirons and
the guns to clean."

Ten days of strenuous attack, sometimes in the rain, and when I hammer
my fingers in the rain I swear horribly; the average French saw, too,
would have placed Job in a sanitarium. Suzette's cheery smile is a
delight, and how her sturdy, dimpled arms can scrub, and dust, and cook,
and clean. When she is working at full steam she invariably sings; but
when her souffle does not souffle she bursts into tears--this good
little peasant maid-of-all-work!

And so the abandoned house by the marsh was settled. Now there is charm,
and crackling fires o' nights within, and sunny breakfasts in the garden
without--a garden that grew to be gay with flowers, and is still in any
wind, thanks to my friend the lichen-stained wall over which clamber
vines and all manner of growing things; and sometimes my kitten with her
snow-white breast, whose innocent green eyes narrow to slits as she
watches for hours two little birds that are trying to bring up a small
family in the vines. I have told her plainly if she even touches them I
will boil her in oil. "Do you hear, Miquette?" and she turns away and
licks her pink paw as if she had not heard--you essence of selfishness
that I love!

Shall I tell you who is coming to dine to-night, Green-eyes? Our
neighbours! Madame Alice de Breville who spoils you, and the Marquis de
Clamard who does not like pussy-cats, but is too well-bred to tell you
so, and the marquise who flatters you, and Blondel! Don't struggle--you
cannot get away, I've got you tight. You are not going to have your way
all the time. Look at me! Claws in and your ears up! There! And Tanrade,
that big, whole-souled musician, with his snug old house and his two big
dogs, either one of which would make mince-meat of you should you have
the misfortune to mistake his garden for your own. Madame de
Breville--do you hear?--who has but to half close her eyes to make
Tanrade forget his name. He loves her madly, you see, pussy-kit!

Ah, yes! The lost village! In which the hours are never dull. Lost
village! With these Parisian neighbours, whose day of discovery
antedated mine by several years. Lost village! In which there are jolly
fishermen and fishergirls as pretty as some gipsies--slim and fearless,
a genial old mayor, an optimistic blacksmith, and a butcher who is a
s