"Sunshine Avenue," announced Von Gerhard. "It
beckons us away from home, and supper and salad dressing
and duty, but who knows what we shall find at the end of
it!"

"Let's explore," I suggested. "It is splendidly
golden enough to be enchanted."

We entered the yellow canopied pathway.

"Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?" pleaded Von
Gerhard. "This golden pathway will end in a neat little
glass-roofed restaurant, with tables and chairs outside,
and comfortable German papas and mammas and pig-tailed
children sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer.
There will be stout waiters, and a red-faced host. And
we will seat ourselves at one of the tables, and I will
wave my hand, and one of the stout waiters will come
flying. `Will you have coffee, _Fraulein_, or beer?' It
sounds prosaic, but it is very, very good, as you will
see. Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen
and waiters in white aprons."

But, "Oh, no!" I exclaimed, for his mood was
infectious. "This is France. Please! The golden
pathway will end in a picturesque little French farm,
with a dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there
will be a red-skirted peasant woman, with a white cap!
and a baby on her arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will