stream. But that is of no moment. On the other side, within a biscuit's
toss, so narrow is it, there are two boats; and on the landing-wharf,
which is only a few planks wide, supporting a tumble-down flight of
steps leading to a vine-covered terrace above, rest the oars.

I lay my traps down on the bank and begin at the top of my voice:--

"Madame Laguerre! Madame Laguerre! Send Lucette with the boat."

For a long time there is no response. A young girl drawing water a short
distance below, hearing my cries, says she will come; and some children
above, who know me, begin paddling over. I decline them all. Experience
tells me it is better to wait for madame.

In a few minutes she pushes aside the leaves, peers through, and calls
out:--

"Ah! it is that horrible painter. Go away! I have nothing for you. You
are hungry again that you come?"

"Very, madame. Where is Lucette?"

"Lucette! Lucette! It is always Lucette. Lu-c-e-t-t-e!" This in a shrill
key. "It is the painter. Come quick."

I have known Lucette for years, even when she was a barefooted little
tangle-hair, peeping at me with her great brown eyes from beneath her
ragged straw hat. She wears high-heeled slippers now, and sometimes on
Sundays dainty silk stockings, and her hair is braided down her back,
little French Marguérite that she is, and her hat is never ragged any