"Would you prefer to sit between us?" Mademoiselle Loiré asked her, when she was once more reinstated in her position. "You would perhaps feel firmer?"
"Oh, no, thank you," said Barbara hastily. "I will hold on to the side now, and be prepared."
"He does have rather a queer motion," Mademoiselle Loiré; remarked complacently; "but he's swift, and that is a great matter, and you soon get used to his leaps. I should think," she went on, looking at the donkey's long gray ears critically, "he would make a good jumper."
"I should think he might," replied Barbara, subduing her merriment. "I don't think our English donkeys jump much, as a rule; but the Brittany ones seem much more accomplished."
"Undoubtedly," her companion continued calmly. "My sister says when she was in England she tried to drive a donkey, and it backed the carriage into the ditch. They must be an inferior breed." To which remark Barbara was powerless to reply for the time being.
The drive was a very pretty one, and the donkey certainly deserved his driver's praises, for he brought them to the inn in good time. It was a quaint little place, standing close to the roadside, but, in spite of that fact, looking as if it were not greatly frequented. As they drove up, they saw an old woman sitting outside under a tree, reading a newspaper; but, on hearing the sound of wheels, she jumped up and ran to the gate. As soon as Mademoiselle Loiré had descended she flung herself upon her; and Barbara wondered how the latter, who was spare and thin, supported the substantial form of her nurse.
She had time to look about her, for her three companions were making a great hubbub, and, as they all spoke together, at the top of their voices, it took some minutes to understand what each was saying. Then Barbara was remembered and introduced, and for a moment she thought the nurse was going to embrace her too, and wondered if it would be worse than a rush at hockey; but, fortunately, she was spared the shock, and instead, was led with the others into a musty parlour.
"I am so pleased to see you," the landlady said, beaming upon them all, "for few people pass this way now the trams and the railway go the other route; and since my dear second husband died it has seemed quieter than ever." Here she shook her head dolefully, and dabbed her bright, black eyes, where Barbara could see no trace of tears.
"Sundays are the longest days," the woman went on, trying to make her hopelessly plump and cheery face look pathetic, "because I am so far away from church. But I read my little newspaper, and say my little prayer—and mention all your names in it" (which Barbara knew was impossible, as she had never heard hers before that morning)—"and think of my little priest."
Mademoiselle Loiré nodded to show she was listening, and Marie hastily stifled a yawn.