as we expressed our gratitude and bent over her hand with an earnest "Au
revoir!"

We went our way, both charmed into silence for a time. I felt that we
were thinking the same thoughts--rejoicing in our happy fortune in these
occasional meetings which flashed across the horizon of our lives and
disappeared, not without leaving behind them an abiding effect; an
earnest appreciation of human nature and the amount of leaven that must
exist in the world. We thought instinctively of Mdlle. Martin, the
little Receveuse des Postes de Retraite at Grace: and of Mdlle. de
Pressense at Villeneuve, who had welcomed us even as the Comtesse had
now done; and we felt that we were favoured.

Time was up, and we decided to make this our last impression of St. Pol
de Leon. We passed down the quiet streets, under the shadow of the
Creisker, out into the open country and the railway station. We were
just in time for the train to Roscoff, and in a very few minutes had
reached that little terminus.

Immediately we felt more out of the world than ever. There was something
so primitive about the station and its surroundings and the people who
hovered about, that this seemed a true _finis terre_. It was, however,
sufficiently civilized to boast of two omnibuses; curiously constructed
machines that, remembering our St. Pol experience, we did not enter. The
town was only a little way off, and its church steeple served us as
beacon.

We passed a few modern houses near the station, which looked like a
settlement in the backwoods with the trees cut down, and then a short
open road led to the quiet streets.

Quiet indeed they were, with a look about them yet more old-world,
deadly and deserted even than St. Pol de Leon. The houses are nearly all
built of that grey _Kersanton_ stone, which has a cold and cheerless
tone full of melancholy; like some of the far away Scotch or Welsh
villages, where nature seems to have died out, no verdure is to be seen,
and the very hedges, that in softer climes bud and blossom and put forth
the promise of spring to make glad the heart of man, are replaced by dry
walls that have no beauty in them.

Yet at once we felt that there was a certain charm about Roscoff, and a
very marked individuality. Never yet, in Brittany, had we felt so out of
the world and removed from civilization. Its quaint houses are
substantial though small, and many of them still possess the old cellars
that open by large winged doors into