120 GOLDEN DAYS 



are times within the courts of heaven 

 when the Holy Virgin looks sad and 

 rather bored (we say it reverently), per- 

 haps a trifle bored. At such times does 

 the good St. Anne glance at her daughter 

 with understanding eyes ; together they 

 pass behind the seraphim. They do not 

 rouse St. Peter (who of late years has 

 grown crotchety and somewhat querulous), 

 but just slip out, leaving the door ajar. 



Now, when you go to Brittany, and 

 learn to love its twilights (there are no 

 others comparable in all the world) — so 

 when you go to Brittany and wander 

 down the chemin creux^ just as the first 

 evening star appears above the stunted 

 oak-tops, perhaps you'll catch a glimpse 

 of two figures on ahead — one is old, and 

 leans contentedly upon her daughter's 

 arm ; the younger is tall and straight, of 

 noble carriage. They'll seem to you just 

 white-coifFed peasants, dimly seen in the 

 late gloaming. ... My friend, our eyes 

 grow dull in this uncertain light. But 

 ask Suzanne and little Mariic what they 

 saw. 



