minute or two, and there reached my ears a faint
tinkling, which drew nearer and nearer every moment. At last it was
plainly the sound of bells on a horse's collar; and presently I could
distinguish the beat of a horse's hoofs coming slowly along the road. In
a few minutes some person would be passing by, who would be able to help
us; and no one could be so inhuman as to leave us in our distress.

It was too dark now to see far along the road, but as we waited and
watched there came into sight a rude sort of covered carriage, like a
market-cart, drawn by a horse with a blue sheep-skin hanging round his
neck. The pace at which he was going was not above a jog-trot, and he
came almost to a stand-still opposite the cross, as if it was customary
to pause there.

This was the instant to appeal for aid. I darted forward in front of the
_char a bancs_, and stretched out my hands to the driver.

"Help us," I cried; we have lost our way, and the night is come. "Help
us, for the love of Christ!" I could see now that the driver was a
burly, red-faced, cleanshaven Norman peasant, wearing a white cotton
cap, with a tassel over his forehead, who stared at me, and at Minima
dragging herself weariedly to my side, as if we had both dropped from
the clouds. He crossed himself hurriedly, and glanced at the grove of
dark, solemn trees from which we had come. But by his side sat a priest,
in his cassock and broad-brimmed hat fastened up at the sides, who
alighted almost before I had finished speaking, and stood before us
bareheaded, and bowing profoundly.

"Madame," he said, in a bland tone, "to what town are you going?"

"We are going to Granville," I answered, "but I am afraid I have lost
the way. We are very tired, this little child and I. We can walk no
more, monsieur. Take care of us, I pray you."

I spoke brokenly, for in an extremity like this it was difficult to put
my request into French. The priest appeared perplexed, but he went back
to the _char a bancs_, and held a short, earnest conversation with the
driver, in a subdued voice.

"Madame," he said, returning to me, "I am Francis Laurentie, the cure of
Ville-en-bois. It is quite a small village about a league from here, and
we are on the road to it; but the route to Granville is two leagues
behind us, and it is still farther to the first village. There is not
time to return with you this evening. Will you, then, go with us to
Ville-en-bois, and to-morrow we will send you