yellow-clay street lined with grass
and wild flowers. A great peace hung over the village, an air of a
different race, a restfulness strange to a Kentuckian. Clematis and
honeysuckle climbed the high palings, and behind the privacy of these,
low, big-chimneyed houses of limestone, weathered gray, could be seen,
their roofs sloping in gentle curves to the shaded porches in front; or
again, houses of posts set upright in the ground and these filled between
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 t