little to your sign-posts. The Blandusian
fount was worth a dozen of you! No
disrespect to you, sir," making as though I
would take off my hat to the saint, who, I
thought, was looking down a little sourly;
"these matters are not in your keeping,
sir!"

The sun was going down; the day was
nearly spent; and it was long past dinner-
time. I do believe the good saint, in that
mossy surtout of his, had appreciated
handsomely the little compliment I had paid
him at the expense of his fountain, and sent
me help in that matter of deciding betwixt
Petit-Pont and Mèzes, for, just turning my
eyes towards the foot of the hill, I espied
two objects beginning to ascend—a very little
French child, driving before her a goat.

They came up the hill slowly enough, for
the goat would stop every now and again to
crop a tempting bunch of herbage, and the
little child would wait for him patiently;
which gave me time to find out that she was
the queerest little old woman of a child that
was ever sent in charge of a goat. She had
on a little blouse that went down to her
heels, and a little, clean woman's cap of linen
with a frill to it. When she was near the
top she caught sight of me, and put on a sort
of stiff gait or comical little strut, dropped
me a little curtsey, dropped another most
reverential curtsey to the saint, and stood
by while the goat drank his fill.

"Come here, ma petite— little epitome of a
woman, most curious miniature housewife!"
(The last titles expressed in the English
tongue.) "What is the goat called?"

She was on the other side of him, and
leaning on his tough neck; and, without
answering, dipped down her head behind him.

"What is his name, little one?" I said
again, encouragingly. "He is the finest
fellow of his years in the parish, I'll swear!"

She was playing hide-and-seek with me
behind that goat's neck of hers, instead of
answering me; and, when I did catch a
glimpse of her, she was smiling roguishly,
with the top of her finger in her mouth.

"Big Beard!" she said, at last, "Grosse
Barbe!"

"You love Big Beard, then, little one?" I
said.

With more of the playing hide-and-seek,
she answered:

"I do love him very much— next to father.
See this, sir; I love papa one thousand—
Grosse Barbe five hundred!"

"And me ?"

Here she kept holding Big Beard's rough
head and neck between me and her. "She
will be the coquette of the whole village
when she grows up," I said; and that brought
another question to my mind— which was
nearer, Petit-Pont or Mèzes.

She said the words over thoughtfully, looking
round her and stamping with a little foot
upon the ground, to keep time as it were,
then shook her head doubtfully. "I will ask
Grosse Barbe" she said.

I fell to laughing at this notion, though
vexed enough that I was destined to have no
help from this quarter.

"And where, then, dost thou live, my
child; thou and thy Grosse Barbe?"

"Over the hill, sir; in papa's little cottage.
Big Beard has a great house all to himself at
the end of the garden. We are so happy, sir,
the three of us."

I had no doubt of it, I said, musingly;
for I was thinking that, at this cottage, I
would learn the relative distances of Petit-
Pont and Mèzes. By this time Big Beard,
thinking there could be no earthly object for
staying, now that his thirst was slaked, was
moving on up the hill.

"See, Grosse Barbe will not stay," she said.
"I must go, too." And with that she jerked
me a little curtsey, jerked another to the
Saint, and set off after her goat.

If I had not been too lazy to unpack
my wallet, I should have had out colours
and brushes and the rough sketching-
paper in a twinkling. Child and goat would
have been washed in boldly, and slept that
night in the portfolio. But the notion of an
encounter with the stiff straps and
buckles——Not at that season certainly.
The sketcher, dinnerless, makes a poor
picture after all.

They had taken the left prong of the Fork,
and were now just over the top of the hill.
So I hoisted up my wallet (it might have
been a sack of coals from the weary way I
did it); and, taking off my hat to the
Saint——-

There was some one coming down the hill
on the right prong. At least there were steps,
and good steady ones. A tree hung over the
road and hid what was approaching. So,
without moving a step out of my position, I
waited, strapping the wallet, until it should
have come round the tree, whatever it was.
The steps came closer, and, from under
spreading branches of the tree, there emerged
—as from under an archway—a figure in a
dark robe, half-cloak half-soutane, with a
sash round his waist, with a little skull-cap
on his head, covering grey hairs, and about
the fairest old man's head I had fallen in
with for many a long day. A sort of country
curé or pastor; and, with that, as indeed
was only becoming, I took off my hat to him
as I had done to the Saint, and wished him
good evening.

As I wished him good evening, he took
off his little skull-cap with a Frenchman's
grace, and halted.

"I had apparently travelled far, that day,"
he said, in the softest and most benignant
of tones. "It was weary work," he said,
"heaven knew it, this trudging along the dusty
roads. The close of day must come gratefully
enough to the traveller. He presumed I was
a stranger; could he be of any assistance?"