On the morning of December 4 in that same year a postman walked up the narrow path leading to the front door of Mère Pitou's house in the Rue Mathias, Pont Aven, and handed in a bundle of letters. The family was at breakfast, the petit déjeuner of coffee and rolls that stays the appetite in every French household until a more substantial meal is prepared at noon. The weather was mild and bright, though a gusty sou'westerly wind was blowing; so door and windows were open.
Barbe saw the postman ere he unlatched the garden gate, and rose excitedly, nearly upsetting a cup in her haste.
"Why, what's the rush?" cried Ingersoll. "And who in the world are all these letters for?"
"Father dear, have you forgotten the date? This is Barbe's name day," said Yvonne.
"Oh, that's the explanation of tonight's festivity," laughed Ingersoll. "Sorry. It quite slipped my mind. Of course she has wagonloads of friends who make a point of remembering these things. Lucky Barbe! And, by the way, Madame, what about those pictures which the Lady of Le Faouet was to dispose of? It's high time she was getting busy. Here are three months sped and—if anything rather a slump in Ingersolls. Actually, my best commission thus far is a series of picture postcards of Le Pouldu—with benefits deferred till next season."
"Perhaps the good saint knew that you kept your tongue in your cheek while you were seeking her help," retorted Madame.
"Impossible. It was lolling out. You ungrateful one, didn't I climb the hill twice for your sake?"
Barbe exchanged a friendly word with the postman, who was well aware of the cause of this sudden increase in the mail delivery at the cottage. Then she ran in.
"One for you, M'sieu'—all the rest for me," she announced gleefully.