I

We had been sitting in the galerie through the lovely August afternoon, watching the wind ruffle the grasses in the fields before us, and gently swing the trees. Better, we felt, under that hot sun, to contemplate beauty, than to waste energy in dissecting it. So we sat in the flickering shade of the wisteria, breaking now into tardy hesitant heavenly blossoming, and; saw the acacias foam on the brink of the steep to the south. Above them, the crosses on Calvary hill were steadfast amongst the changing verdure. Higher still, the Pyrenees leapt to meet the sky.

As we sat at ease, a woman came into view along the path fringed by the acacias. We leant forward a little to watch her, wondering what friend this might be. She wore black, she was slender, she was unusually graceful; and none of us could remember having seen her before.

She approached the gate; and, as I ran down to greet her, she smiled at me from under her drooping hat.

I am Mlle. Deschamps,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for coming to call on you first. I came because I was told you would be glad to see me, to talk about the pilgrimage.’

She was charming, I thought, and distinguished, with delightful gestures. Her head was small and beautifully poised. The forehead was broad and low, the eyes so dark a brown as to make one think them black, the nose aquiline, the mouth strong and tender.