tning. That, you know, is not dangerous, and
beautifies the horizon."

It was the day of our visit to St. Jean du Doigt, and we had seriously
fallen out with our coachman by the way. St. Jean had so charmed us that
we felt reluctant to leave it. The little inn, quiet and solitary, with
its windows open to the sunshine, its snow-white cloth, its wealth of
creeper and blossom trailing up the walls and sunning over the roof,
invited us to enter and be happy; to revel in the outer scene, sylvan,
rustic, ecclesiastical, an overflow of the beauties of earth, sky,
sunshine and ancient architecture. Here was an earthly paradise; it
might still be ours for some golden moments. Yet we threw away our
opportunity; as we so often do in life in far weightier matters than
taking luncheon at a village inn.

We hesitated very much, but we had to see Plougasnou, and our driver,
for reasons of his own, declared that Plougasnou was far more beautiful
than St. Jean du Doigt, whilst its inn was renowned in Brittany. So,
having watched the funeral wind picturesquely down the hill-side, pause
at the beautiful gateway, and disappear into the church, we departed.

It was very charming to drive about the hills and valleys, the narrow
country lanes that were full of the beauty of summer. Finally, a steep
ascent brought us to our destination with a rude awakening. We had left
Paradise for very earthly quarters. There was no beauty about the spot,
which, placed on a hill, was bleak, bare, and exposed. The inn was the
incarnation of ugliness, and everything about it was rough and rude. In
the kitchen two women were at work. The one was brewing coffee, which
sent forth a delicious aroma, the other, with weeping eyes, was peeling
onions for the pot-au-feu.

We were served with a modest luncheon in a room behind the kitchen.
Madame prepared our food, and we had the privilege of assisting at the
ceremony. We were initiated into the mystery of frying an
omelette-au-naturel, the safest thing to order, no matter where you may
be in France, for the humblest cottage knows how to send up its omelette
to perfection. The handmaiden waited upon us, but she was heavy and not
intelligent, and she walked about in wooden shoes that clattered and
echoed and shocked one's nerves. But this did not affect the omelette,
or the modest ragout that concluded the banquet.

We lunched almost al fresco. The window was wide open and looked on to a
large yard, surrounded by