to Bottitort, she answered--between two and three leagues, and an
indifferent road.

We could ride the distance in a couple of hours, and there
remained almost as much daylight. But the horses were tired, so,
resigning myself to the prospect of some discomfort, I asked her
if there was an inn at St. Brieuc.

"A poor place for your honours," she answered, staring at us in
innocent wonder, the forgotten tears not dry on her cheeks.

"Never mind; take us to it," I answered.

She turned at the word and tripped on before us. I bade the
servant ask her, as we went, why she had been crying, and learned
through him that she had been to her uncle's two leagues away to
borrow money for her mother; that the uncle would not lend it,
and that now they would be turned out of their house; that her
father was lately dead, and that her mother kept the inn, and
owed the money for meal and cider.

"At least, she says that she does not owe it," the man corrected
himself, "for her father paid as usual at Corpus Christi; but
after his death M. Grabot said that he had not paid, and--"

"M. Grabot?" I said. "Who is he?"

"The Mayor of Bottitort."

"The creditor?"