retraced the experiences of the last three months in as many minutes.
Then, somehow, she felt better. The tears had washed away the ache in
her throat. She wiped her eyes and climbed liked a squirrel to the
highest limb that could bear her weight.

This was not the first time that the old pear-tree had been shaken by
Joyce's grief, and it knew that her spells of homesickness always ended
in this way. There she sat, swinging her plump legs back and forth, her
long light hair blowing over the shoulders of her blue jacket, and her
saucy little mouth puckered into a soft whistle. She could see over the
high wall now. The sun was going down behind the tall Lombardy poplars
that lined the road, and in a distant field two peasants still at work
reminded her of the picture of "The Angelus." They seemed like
acquaintances on account of the resemblance, for there was a copy of the
picture in her little bedroom at home.

All around her stretched quiet fields, sloping down to the ancient
village of St. Symphorien and the river Loire. Just across the river, so
near that she could hear the ringing of the cathedral bell, lay the
famous old town of Tours. There was something in these country sights
and sounds that soothed her with their homely cheerfulness. The crowing
of a rooster and the barking of a dog fell on her ear like
familiar music.

"It's a comfort to hear something speak English," she sighed, "even if
it's nothing but a chicken. I do wish that Cousin Kate wouldn't be so
particular about my using French all day long. The one little half-hour
at bedtime when she allows me to speak English isn't a drop in the
bucket. It's a mercy that I had studied French some before I came, or I
would have a lonesome time. I wouldn't be able to ever talk at all."