a boy of six who was digging mud at the foot of an
ancient ivy-covered tower.

"C'est le tour du Connetable," the child lisped. "Et
v'la, monsieur!" pointing to a filthy pen with a gate of
black oak; "v'la le donjon de Clisson!"
"Who was Clisson?" said Lisa impatiently.

"A live man to Froissart--and to this boy," said George,
laughing. "I told you that we had gone back seven
centuries. This fog comes in from the Morbihan sea where
Arthur and his knights went sailing to find the Holy
Greal. They have not come back. And south yonder is the
country of the Druids. I will take you to-morrow and
show you twenty thousand of their menhirs, and then we
will sail away to an island where there is an altar that
the serpent worshippers built ages before Christ."


Lisa laughed. He was not often in this playful mood.
She panted as she toiled up the dark little street, a
step behind him, but he did not think of giving her his
arm. He had grown accustomed to regard himself as
the invalid now, and the one who needed care.

"I am going for letters," he called back, diving into a
dingy alley. The baby and its bonne were near Lisa.
The child never was out of her sight for, a moment. She
waited, standing a little apart from Colette to watch
whether the passers-by would notice the baby. When one