here was no want of
movement and animation. It was not a picturesque crowd, for there were
no costumes, and the _bourgeoisie_ of Morlaix are not more interesting
than others of their class.

At last loomed upon us the great viaduct, and a train rolled over as we
rolled under it. The vessels in the little port had mounted their flags
and looked gay, in honour of the occasion. We entered Morlaix for the
last time, for we were to leave on the morrow. Madame Hellard was not
taking the air; she and Monsieur were enjoying a moment's repose in the
bureau. They now invariably greeted us as _habitues_ of the house.

"But you have neither of you been to the Regatta," we observed.

"I go nowhere without my wife," gallantly responded our host.

"And I was too busy with our wedding breakfast to think of anything
else," said Madame. "And, to tell you the truth, I don't care for
regattas. I can see no pleasure in watching which of two or which of
half-a-dozen boats comes in first. The people interest me; but it is
really almost as amusing to see them passing one's own door, and not
half so tiring. I hope, messieurs, you have returned with good
appetites: I have ordered you some _crepes_. Was it not funny to see the
old women tossing them on the slopes?"

"Al fresco fetes," chimed in Monsieur. "Ah, la jeunesse! la jeunesse!
Youth is the time for enjoyment. _Donnez-moi vos vingt ans si vous n'en
faites rien!_ So says the old song--so say I. And now you are going to
leave us, and to-morrow we shall be in total eclipse," he added,
determined not to leave us out in his compliments. "But you are
right--you cannot stay here for ever. You have seen all that is of note
in Morlaix and the neighbourhood, and you will be charmed with Quimper."

"Quimper? I would rather live fifty years in Morlaix than a hundred in
Quimper," cried Catherine, who came in at that moment for the menus.
"The river smells horribly, the town is dirty and stuffy, and it always
rains there. And as for the hotels--enfin, _you will see_!"

[Illustration: MORLAIX.]

It was very certain that we should not alight upon another Catherine.

For the last time we wandered out that night when the moon had risen, to
take our farewell of the old streets that had given us so much pleasure.
We knew them well, and felt that we were communing with old friends.
Their outlines, their gabled roofs, the deep shadows cast by the pale
moonlight, the warmer reflections from the beautifu