voice
thickened by pork, onions, and gravy.

Truly enough, half of Finistere and Morbihan was gathering at Paradise
for a fete. The slow Breton imagination had been fired by our circus
bills and posters; ancient Armorica was stirring in her slumber,
roused to consciousness by the Yankee bill-poster.

At the inn all rooms were taken; every house had become an inn; barns,
stables, granaries had their guests; fishermen's huts on coast and
cliff were bright with coiffes and embroidered jerseys.

In their misfortune, the lonely women of Paradise recognized in this
influx a godsend--a few francs to gain with which to face those coming
wintry months while their men were absent. And they opened their tiny
houses to those who asked a lodging.

The crowds which had earlier in the evening gathered to gape at our
big tent were now noisiest in the square, where the endless drone of
the pipes intoned the farandole.

A few of our circus folk had come down to enjoy the picturesque
spectacle. Speed, standing with Jacqueline beside me, began to laugh
and beat time to the wild music. A pretty maid of Bannalec, white
coiffe and scarlet skirts a-flutter, called out with the broad freedom
of the chastest of nations: "There is the lover I could pray for--if
he can dance the farandole!"

"I'll show you whether I can dance the farandole, ma belle!" cried
Speed, and caught her hand, but she snatched her brown fingers away
and danced off, laughing: "He who loves must follow, follow, follow
the farandole!"

Speed started to follow, but Jacqueline laid a timid hand on his arm.

"I dance, M'sieu Speed," she said, her face flushing under her
elf-locks.

"You blessed child," he cried, "you shall dance till you drop to
your knees on the bowling-green!" And, hand clasping hand, they swung
out into the farandole. For an instant only I caught a glimpse of
Jacqueline's blissful face, and her eyes like blue stars burning; then
they darkened into silhouettes against the yellow glare of the
lanterns and vanished.

Byram rambled up for a moment, to comment on the quaint scene from a
showman's point of view. "It would fill the tent in old Noo York, but
it's n. g. in this here country, where everybody's either a coryphee
or a clown or a pantaloon! Camuels ain't no rara avises in the Sairy,
an' no niggers go to burnt-cork shows. Phylosophy is the thing, Mr.
Scarlett! Ruminate! Ruminate!"

I promised to do so, and the old man rambled away, coat and