"Well, why not? It might be possible to have just this. Let's ask the
Widow."

So, when they were sitting over their cigarettes, and the old woman
was clearing the table, the Doctor looked her over, and considered
the road of approach.

She was a rugged old woman, well on toward eighty, with a bronzed,
weather-worn face, abundant coarse gray hair, a heavy shapeless
figure, but a firm bearing, in spite of her rounded back. As far as
they could see, they were alone on the place with her. The Doctor
decided to jump right into the subject.

"Mother," he said, "I suppose you don't want to sell this place?"

The old woman eyed him a moment with her sharp dark eyes.

"But, yes, _Monsieur_," she replied. "I should like it very well, only
it is not possible. No one would be willing to pay my price. Oh, no,
no one. No, indeed."

"Well," said the Doctor, "how do you know that? What is the price?--Is
it permitted to ask?"

The old woman hesitated,--started to speak--changed her mind, and
turned away, muttering. "Oh, no, _Monsieur_,--it is not worth the
trouble--no one will ever pay my price."

The Doctor jumped up, laughing, ran after her, took her by the arm,
and led her back to the table.