leased to let us come there.

The old gentleman was most amiable--begged we would come as often as
we liked--merely making one condition, that we should have a man on
the bank (the pond was only about a foot deep) with a rope in case of
accidents.... We went there nearly every afternoon, and made quite a
comfortable "installation" on the bank: a fire, rugs, chairs and a
very good little gouter, the grocer's daughter bringing us hot wine
and biscuits from the town.

It was a perfect sight for La Ferte. The whole town came to look at
us, and the carters stopped their teams on the road to look on--one
day particularly when one of our cousins, Maurice de Bunsen,[3] was
staying with us. He skated beautifully, doing all sorts of figures,
and his double eights and initials astounded the simple country folk.
For some time after they spoke of "l'Anglais" who did such wonderful
things on the ice.

[3] To-day British Embassador at Madrid.

They were bad days for the poor. We used to meet all the children
coming back from school when we went home. The poor little things
toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must
have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for
all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner. Those
that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them,
generally a good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer
ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn't
have been very nourishing. They were a very poor lot at our little
village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm
stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me,
and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school
mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate
of soup every day during the winter months. W., who knew his people
well, rather discouraged us--said they all had a certain sort of
pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at
being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.

We got a big kettle at La Ferte, and the good Mere Cecile of the Asile
lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn't be able to carry
out our plan. She had tried at the Asile, but it didn't go; the
children didn't care about the soup--liked the bread and chocolate
better. It was really a curious experience. I am still astonished when
I think of it. The