tween with plaster, and so immaculately whitewashed that they gleamed
against the green of the trees which shaded them. Behind the houses was
often a kind of pink-and-cream paradise of flowering fruit trees, so
dear to the French settlers. There were vineyards, too, and thrifty
patches of vegetables, and lines of flowers set in the carefully raked
mould.

We walked on, enraptured by the sights around us, by the heavy scent
of the roses and the blossoms. Here was a quaint stone horse-mill, a
stable, or a barn set uncouthly on the street; a baker's shop, with a
glimpse of the white-capped baker through the shaded doorway, and an
appetizing smell of hot bread in the air. A little farther on we heard
the tinkle of the blacksmith's hammer, and the man himself looked up
from where the hoof rested on his leather apron to give us a kindly
"Bon soir, Messieurs," as we passed. And here was a cabaret, with the
inevitable porch, from whence came the sharp click of billiard balls.

We walked on, stopping now and again to peer between the palings, when
we heard, amidst the rattling of a cart and the jingling of bells, a
chorus of voices:--

"A cheval, a cheval, pour aller voir ma mie,
Lon, lon, la!"

A shaggy Indian pony came ambling around the corner between the long
shafts of a charette. A bareheaded young man in tow shirt and trousers
was driving, and three laughing girls were seated on the stools in the
cart behind him. Suddenly, before I quite realized what had happened,
the young man pulled up the pony, the girls fell silent, and Nick was
standing in the middle of the road, with his hat in his hand, bowing
elaborately.

"Je vous salue, Mesdemoiselles," he cried, "mes anges a char-a-banc.
Pouvez-vous me diriger chez Monsieur Gratiot?"

"Sapristi!" exclaimed the young man, but he laughed. The young women
stood up, giggling, and peered at Nick over the young man's shoulder.
One of them wore a fresh red-and-white calamanco gown. She had a
complexion of ivory tinged with red, raven hair, and dusky, long-lashed,
mischievous eyes brimming with merriment.

"Volontiers, Monsieur," she answered, before the others could catch
their breath, "premiere droite et premiere gauche. Allons, Gaspard!" she
cried, tapping the young man sharply on the shoulder, "es tu fou?"

Gaspard came to himself, flicked the pony, and they went off down the
road with shouts of laughter, while Nick stood waving his hat until they
turn