aced and forgotten. Morlaix, at the
time of the Fair, was a Pandemonium: at the Regatta, if not exactly
Paradise, it was at least very lively and amusing; whilst, when neither
Fair nor Regatta was in question, Morlaix was full of the charm of
repose; a sleepy atmosphere that accorded well with its old-world
outlines.

[Illustration: FISHWOMEN, BRITTANY.]

Not least was our regret at saying good-bye to Catherine. She was an
original character, who had much amused and entertained us. There was a
vein of humour in her composition which the slightest touch brought to
the surface. The solemnity of her features never relaxed, and whilst she
made others laugh, and laugh again, her own face would invariably be
grave as a judge's. It was also a pleasure--in these days of
incapacity--to meet with a woman who managed the affairs of her little
world with all the discretion of a Prime Minister.

"Ces messieurs are going to Quimper," she exclaimed that last morning.
We were alone in the dining-room, taking an early breakfast. Our small
side-table faced the end window, and we looked upon the old square, and
the canal, where a long row of women were already washing, beating,
rinsing their linen, their white caps conspicuous, their voices raised
in laughter that rippled down the troubled waters. It was a lively
scene; very picturesque; very suited to the old town.

"Ces messieurs are going to Quimper," said Catherine, speaking the name
in the very italics of scorn. "They would do much better to remain in
Morlaix, where at least there is a good hotel, and a Catherine who is
ready to serve them night and day. But human nature is curious and must
see everything. One house is like another; one street like another; the
sea coast is the same everywhere; the same water, the same air, the same
sky; but just because one shore is a bay and the other a point, because
one coast is flat and the other has cliffs, mankind must rush about and
call it seeing the world."

"Would you have us stay here for ever?" we asked, amused at Catherine's
idea of life and travel.

"Well, no," she acknowledged; "I suppose not. It would hardly do.
Morlaix, after all, is not exciting. Only I am sorry you are going, and
it makes me unjust to the rest of the world," she acknowledged. "We
shall have a quiet time all this week, and I could have served you
better than I did last. But I don't like Quimper. There is not a decent
hotel in the place, and I wouldn't live t