“Marche donc”—a sort of querulous question, ‘why don’t you go on ?’ addressed to their patient horses. You decline the oft-repeated proffer of a ridevand a wetting— and execute a double-quick run for the shelter of a friendly cottage. Your energetic knock is quickly answered by a young girl of seventeen summers who has in her en— gaging face all the sweet characteristics of the daughters of France.

“May I shelter here until the storm has passed," you ask, stepping in. “Pardon, Monsieur?" comes the reply, as the door is hastily closed against the pelting rain.

Your linguistic powers are varied, yet limited; having been acquired by brief residences in four or five different countries. You manage to remark, ” Un jour de pluie, ” and as the young girl smiles indulgently over this very Obvious fact, while rain dashes against the window,—lightning flashing and thunder rolling—you manage to explain “1m abri.” “Avec plaisir, Monsieur,” is the reply in liquid and sweet intonation.

Removing your rain-coat you gratefully repose in the solid arm-chair, and examine with keen interest all the fittings, ornaments and family souvenirs of what you plainly see is an old-time French interior. Your amiable hostess has gone for a moment, but soon reappears, followed by father, mother, grandfather, brother and sister. You rise, bow politely, and shake hands all round, not for- getting your ‘good angel of the storm,’ whose ingenuous eyes reflect the pleasure of having a visitor from the outer world. “C'est 1m grand plaisir,” you remark; and then indicating her, you add, “Ma bonne ange de l’omge.”

At this all laugh heartily, and none more so than ‘la bonne (mge’ herself. ”I hev bin in de State," the oldest, a son, remarks, as all the family smile proudly over his knowledge of English. The elder daughter now invites you to sit near her on the settee while she leafs over the album of family portraits for your entertainment. You are immediately surrounded by the others; all leaning over, pointing out the portraits and relating choice bits of family history. Everyone talks at once, and your frail linguistic bark founders in the deep sea of voluble conversation.

And now a blinding flash of lightning is followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. The house is shaken by the concussion. ‘La Bonne Ange’ quickly runs to the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner, takes out a bottle and sprinkles l’eau benite over the door lintel and window frame. Her sister having run out of the room after the alarming thunder-peal, ‘La Bonne Ange’

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