220 GOLDEN DAYS 



come to bid me bo7i voyage over a parting 

 mug of cider. We drew our chairs around 

 the kitchen fire. I had dined earher — a 

 somewhat cheerless affair, alone in the long 

 chilly salle a manger — and welcomed the 

 prospect of an hour's gossip in the warmth 

 before my cart arrived. 



We talked while Anastasie filled the 

 cider bowls, and then brought out her 

 knitting, the firelight glinting on those 

 ever moving needles. 



Then in came old Morvan, the shepherd; 

 and behind him another of my models, 

 Ian Abalen, a wild-eyed man, a beggar. 

 In England he would be the village idiot, 

 but here an " Innocent," " the guest of 

 God." 



More jugs were brought ; old Morvan's 

 shaggy coat was laid aside, while Ian 

 Abalen, carrying his mug, crept to the 

 hearth. 



Again the voices rose and fell ; the 

 knitting-needles clicked. We talked of 

 hdcasse shooting, of the last year's crops, 

 the pardon of St. Anne, the cure's tithes, 

 and suchlike village topics, and all the 

 while Ian Abalen crouched silent in the 



