on behind that wagon that's going down-hill.' She had no idea that I was
in earnest. She just smiled very politely and said, 'Oh, mademoiselle,
impossible! How you Americans do love to jest.' But it was no joke. You
can't imagine how stupid it is to be with nobody but grown people all
the time. I'm fairly aching for a good old game of hi spy or prisoner's
base with you. There is nothing at all to do, but to take poky walks.

"Yesterday afternoon we walked down to the river. There's a double row
of trees along it on this side, and several benches where people can
wait for the tram-cars that pass down this street and then across the
bridge into Tours. Marie found an old friend of hers sitting on one of
the benches,--such a big fat woman, and oh, such a gossip! Marie said
she was tired, so we sat there a long time. Her friend's name is
Clotilde Robard. They talked about everybody in St. Symphorien.

"Then I gossiped, too. I asked Clotilde Robard if she knew why the gate
with the big scissors was never opened any more. She told me that she
used to be one of the maids there, before she married the spice-monger
and was Madame Robard. Years before she went to live there, when the old
Monsieur Ciseaux died, there was a dreadful quarrel about some money.
The son that got the property told his brother and sister never to
darken his doors again.

[Illustration: OUT WITH MARIE.]

"They went off to America, and that big front gate has never been opened
since they passed out of it. Clotilde says that some people say that
they put a curse on it, and something awful will happen to the first one
who dares to go through. Isn't that interesting?