All these little farm-houses are so many homely fortresses, cottage and
outhouses being securely walled in, a precaution necessary with aged,
moneyed folks living absolutely alone.

A fourth visit was paid to a charming old Philemon and Baucis, the best
possible specimens of their class. The husband lay in bed, ill of an
incurable malady, and spotlessly white were his tasselled nightcap,
shirt and bedclothes. Very clean and neat too was the bedroom opening on
to the little front yard, beneath each window of the one-storeyed
dwelling being a brilliant border of asters. The housewife also was a
picture of tidiness, her cotton gown carefully patched and scrupulously
clean. This worthy couple are said to be worth fifty thousand francs.
The wife, a sexagenarian, does all the work of the house besides waiting
on her good man, to whom she is devoted, but a married son and
daughter-in-law share her duties at night. Here was no touch of
sordidness or suggestion of "La Terre," instead a delightful picture of
rustic dignity and ease. The housewife sold us half a bushel of pears,
these two like their neighbours living by the produce of their small
farm and garden.

I often dropped in upon Madame B---- to whom even morning calls were
acceptable.

On the occasion of my farewell visit she had something pretty to say
about one of my own novels, a French translation of which I had
presented her.

"I suppose," I said, "that you have some books of your own?"