They slipped the reins through a ring in the flags in front of the house, and sipped their tea, while the children of the place came and stared solemnly at the strangers.
They drove home in the evening sunlight between the orchards, where the apples hung heavy on the trees, Mademoiselle Viré talking in her happy way as usual, entertaining Barbara with tales of what she had seen and heard. But when they drew up at her door, and the girl helped her out, she looked anxiously into her friend's face. Had it been too tiring for her?
"You are thinking I may be tired!" the old lady said, smiling at her. "Then I will tell you, my dear. I am just tired enough to go to bed and have dreams, happy dreams. When one is so old, one is so near the end of memory, so near the beginning of realities, that the former ceases to be sad. I thank you for the pleasure you have given Jeannette and myself, it will last us long; and now, good-night."
She kissed her, and Barbara turned back to the pony chaise.
"For her sake," she said softly to herself, "one would like the realities to begin soon."
CHAPTER XVIII.
AUNT ANNE AGAIN.
Barbara had not been so frequently at the bath-house of late, the sea proving more attractive, and she was therefore surprised one day on going there to find a new bath-boy. She missed her old plain-faced friend and wondered what had become of him. "Is he ill?" she asked at the office on her way out.
The woman pursed up her lips; "No, he is not ill," she said. "But we found that he was not of the character that we thought."