rs of different wares, chiefly of
a refreshing description, had installed themselves. The most popular and
the most picturesque were the pancake women, who, on their knees, beat
up the batter, held the frying pans over a charcoal fire, and tossed the
pancakes with a skill worthy of Madame Hellard's chef. Their services
were in full force, and it was certainly not a graceful exhibition to
see the Breton boys and girls, of any age from ten to twenty, devouring
these no doubt delicious delicacies with no other assistance than their
own fairy fingers. After all, they were enjoying themselves in their own
fashion and looked as if they could imagine no greater happiness in
life.

We wandered away from the scene, round the point, where stretched
another portion of the coast of Finistere. It was a lovely vision. The
steep cliffs fell away at our feet to the beach, here quite deserted and
out of sight of the crowd not very far off. Over the white sand rolled
and swished the pale green water with most soothing sound. The sun shone
and sparkled upon the surface. The bay was wide, and on the opposite
coast rose the cliffs crowned by the little town of Roscoff, its grey
towers sharply outlined against the sky. Our thoughts immediately went
back to the day we had spent there; to the quiet streets of St. Pol de
Leon, and its beautiful church, and the charming Countess who had
exercised such rare hospitality and taken us to fairy-land.

The vision faded as we turned our backs upon the sea and the crowd and
entered upon our return journey. The zigzag was passed and the houses,
where now we looked down the chimneys and now into the cellars. In due
time we came to the high road. It was crowded with vehicles all waiting
the end of the races and the return of the multitude. Apparently it was
"first come, first served," for we had our choice of all--a veritable
embarras de choix. It was made and we started. Very soon, on the other
side the river, we came in sight of our little auberge, _A la halte des
Pecheurs_, where on a memorable occasion we had taken refuge from a
second deluge. And there, at its door, stood Madame Mirmiton, anxiously
looking down the road for the return of her husband from the Regatta.
Whether he had recovered from his sprain, or had found a friendly
conveyance to give him a seat, did not appear.

We went our way; the river separated us from the inn and there was no
ferry at hand. Many like ourselves were returning; t