Just before reaching La Guimorais the road branched off towards a lonely manoir, empty now, and used by some farmer for a storehouse. Yet there was still a dignity about it that neither uncared-for garden nor ruined beauty could destroy.
"May we go close, quite close to it?" Mademoiselle Viré asked, and Barbara turning the pony's head into the lane, pulled up beside the high gray walls.
"The master once, the servant now, but still noble," the old lady whispered, as her eyes, wandering lovingly over it all, lingered at last upon a bush of roses near the gate. The flowers were almost wild, through neglect and lack of pruning, and not half so fine as many in the little lady's own garden; but Barbara, noticing the longing look, slipped out and gathered a handful.
"The farmer would spare you those, I think, madame, if it pleases you to have them."
"He would surely spare them to me," madame repeated, and buried her face in their fragrance. Then she laid them in her lap.
"Drive on, my dear, I have seen all I wish," she said. She was silent till they passed into the main road again. Then she said, with a backward look at the manoir—
"I once stayed there for a very happy summer with my father, and a well-beloved friend. They are both in Paradise now, and I hope, by God's good grace and the intercessions of our Lady, I am nearer them each year."
Her face was perfectly serene, but poor old Jeannette's was all puckered up, and the tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. As for Barbara, she did not speak for a time.
The village was a quaint little place, just a few houses dropped together beside the sea, which sang to them for ever.
"Let us not go in out of the clean, strong air," Mademoiselle Viré said, as they stopped in front of the inn. "May we drink tea at the door?"