e
disposal of a cotton bag, a wicker basket, an old umbrella, and a box,
which half a dozen men seize upon with clumsy hands, in good-natured
officiousness, and thrust into the baggage compartment, while the women
and children press about her, kissing the rough, ruddy cheeks, and
uttering what we are sure must be blessings--odds and ends of which
float up to us. Evidently the little, old woman is going a journey.
Aided by a dozen rough, helpful hands, she climbs the ladder to her
place beside us, with a deprecatory though cheerful "_Bon jour_" to us
all, subsiding into a corner, where she is immediately submerged as her
belongings are showered down upon her; last of all a crumpled letter is
tossed into her lap.

The driver mounts to his place; she leans over; a perfect gust of
blessings, and kisses, and adieus follow us, as with a crack of the whip
the horses spring away, and we leave the village far behind.

Suddenly--for we have turned away our faces--the little old woman's hand
is plunged into the cotton bag under our feet. We venture to look
around. The tears have gone; her face beams like the sun, as she brings
out of the depths a couple of eggs. Another dive, and she emerges with a
piece of bread. A pinch of salt is added from the basket, and her
breakfast is complete. She hospitably offers a share to each of us. We
decline; and as a shadow dims the brightness of her face, Katie adds
quickly,--

"We have had two breakfasts already."

The little old woman rolls her round, blue eyes to heaven, with a pious
ejaculation. Such lavish extravagance is beyond her comprehension.

"That is like you rich people," she says. "We are only too happy if the
good God sends us _one_." And she relapses into a wondering silence.

"Does madame travel far?" we venture presently.

"Ah, yes." And she shakes her head slowly. Words cannot express the
distance, it is so great.

"But she has been this way before?" we go on.

"No, never before." And again the round, blue eyes seek heaven, and
again a deep sigh follows the words. She has finished her lunch, and,
diving under our feet, emerges after a time with a box, which, opened,
discloses a small store of peppermints. This she offers with some
hesitation, and we each hasten to accept one, her countenance beaming
more and more as they disappear. "Given to hospitality," the little old
woman has been, we know.

When the box is with difficulty replaced, the string of the bag drawn,