n those curious old
brass bowls one sees everywhere here. Some of them are very handsome,
polished until they shine like mirrors, with a delicate pattern lightly
traced running around the bowl. They balance them perfectly on their
heads and walk along at a good swinging pace. They all look prosperous,
their skirts (generally black), shoes, and stockings in good condition,
and their white caps and handkerchiefs as clean as possible. Quineville
is a very quiet little place, no hotel, and rows of ugly little houses
well back from the sea, but there is a beautiful stretch of firm white
sand. To-day it was dead low tide. The sea looked miles away, a long
line of dark sea-weed marking the water's edge. There were plenty of
people about; women and girls with stout bare legs, and a primitive sort
of tool, half pitchfork, half shovel, were piling the sea-weed into the
carts which were waiting on the shore. Children were paddling about in
the numerous little pools and making themselves wreaths and necklaces
out of the berries of the sea-weed--some of them quite bright-coloured,
pink and yellow. We wandered about on the beach, sitting sometimes on
the side of a boat, and walking through the little pools and streams. It
was a lonely bit of water. We didn't see a sail. The sea looked like a
great blue plain meeting the sky--nothing to break the monotony. We got
some very bad coffee at the restaurant--didn't attempt tea. They would
certainly have _said_ they had it, and would have made it probably out
of hay from the barn. The drive home was delicious, almost too cool, as
we went at a good pace, the horses knowing as well as we did that the
end of their day was coming.... We have been again to market this
morning. It was much more amusing than the first time, as it was horse
day, and men and beasts were congregated in the middle of the Cathedral
Square. There was a fair show--splendid big carthorses and good cobs and
ponies--here and there a nice saddle-horse. There were a good many women
driving themselves, and almost all had good, stout little horses. They
know just as much about it as the men and were much interested in the
sales. They told me the landlady of the hotel was the best judge of a
horse and a _man_ in Normandy. She was standing at the entrance of her
court-yard as we passed the hotel on our way home, a comely, buxom
figure, dressed like all the rest in a short black skirt and sabots. She
was exchanging smiling greetings