Whitewash. Ethel Watts Mumford

under contract to accommodate us. If the child is ill, we will not insist on our rights; but accommodate us you must, somewhere. You know perfectly well the conditions here during the feast. We have no intention of sleeping in the square with the peasants, or doing the 'Stations of the Cross' on our knees all night in the church. Now, what are you going to do?"

      The landlord looked up at her stately height, at the gold glory of her hair, at the violet fire of her eyes—and wilted.

      "Madame—mademoiselle must pardon. It is unfortunate, but perhaps, if the ladies would be graciously lenient—there were—rooms—oh, ​not the kind he wished he might provide—but rooms—one in the wing, where two of ces dames could stay—and one"—he hesitated, and fairly gasped—"over the—the stable."

      Sonia's manner was magnificent. As a queen might condescend to accept a lowly state that humbler subjects cavilled at, because, being queen, she dignified whatever lodging she deigned to honor, she inclined her head. "Take us there," she said, "and let Madame Vernon-Château-Lamion know that because of the illness of her child we will permit her to occupy our apartments."

      The fat little landlord gulped, and humbly led the way to the dingy hospitality he offered.

      "Too bad we can't be together," Shorty wailed, as she inspected the cubby-hole in the wing.

      Once more the host, by this time reduced to positive pathos, clamored his excuses.

      Sonia silenced him. "This lady," indicating Victoria, "and I will occupy the stable." Again they journeyed through a labyrinth of passages to the much-scorned chamber, which proved to be better than its promise. It was, at least, clean ​and roomy, and the two little hospital cots looked comfortable enough. Its simple dormer-window commanded an uninspiring view of courtyard and barn, the slope of the roof being not so great but one might step out on it with safety, or, in case of necessity, slip across to the iron ladder that posed as fire-escape for the part of the hotel buildings adjoining the lofts. This much, the American girl's hasty inspection took in as she put down her simple baggage. Sonia, glancing through the dim window-glass, commented on the ease with which one might cross from one part of the house to another by judicious use of water-pipes and roofs. "It is to be hoped," she concluded, "that pilgrims are uniformly pious, otherwise a burglar would have what you call a 'picnic' of this house."

      Victoria, deep in tepid ablutions, sputtered something about willingly parting with everything but her kodak films; but Sonia persisted:

      "These are servants' quarters, or hostlers'. I don't think it is right to put such people in a room like this that has window communication with every back room in the house—yes, and ​probably every front one, too, for one would have only to cross the roof and use the balconies."

      "Oh, come, trust the Breton hostlers; they haven't imagination enough to think of anything so complicated, and unless, Sonia, you are contemplating a little burglarious expedition, we're safe enough."

      Victoria wiped her hands on the diminutive towel, twisted her short skirt straight, stuffed in a handful of strong hairpins, and announced her intention of going out. Her companion slowly left the window, went through the same feminine recipe for "straightening up," and patted her friend's shoulder with impulsive irrelevance.

      "Vic, you are a nice girl. I wish you would come to Russia with me this winter instead of going back to America."

      Her friend smiled. "Wish I could, Sonia, but I've got to go, there's no getting out of it. It's business, you see. There will be a settling of the estate—Bob comes of age."

      Sonia locked the door as they went out into the cheerless corridor that smelt not unpleasantly of hay and fodder. "Well, perhaps I'll come to ​America instead. I've always wanted to see what it is like."

      "If you do, Sonia, I'll give you the best time you ever had in all your life. As a country, well, I don't like to be unpatriotic—you'll be disappointed; but the people make up for it—they are the whitest in the world." The gray eyes looked unutterable admiration into space.

      They reached the staircase after much wandering, and descended to the floor below, turned toward the main entrance, and came face to face with the plaided, knickerbockered young man, whose back had attracted their comment. Victoria, because of her bet, favored the stranger with a long comprehensive stare as he passed. He was undeniably handsome, with fine, regular features, yellow hair concealed by a gray cap, very black eyes and eyebrows that contrasted strangely with his light mustache. He walked gracefully in spite of a slight limp.

      "He is English," Sonia asserted, when well out of earshot.

      Victoria shook her head. "I don't think so. I'm sure I don't know why, but I don't."

      ​The Lorient-coifed chambermaid appeared burdened with towels and full of business. The girl confronted her. "Do you know who the young man is who just went up-stairs? He looks like some one I know, but I can't be sure."

      "Oh, yes—fifty—seven." The woman patted the towels gently, as if struggling to remember among the press of patrons. "Fifty-seven—fifty-seven—came yesterday—had a headache and his dinner in his room. I think he went out awhile ago, but he didn't stay long. Seems to be expecting somebody from the way he sits by the window. English? of course. You should hear him speak French." She laughed. "His name? I don't know—oh, yes, his bag has 'J. O Farrell' marked on it; it's a cheap bag," and with this information she proceeded on her way.

      "That settles it—you've lost," said Sonia.

      "I suppose I have." Victoria's voice was puzzled and unconvinced.

      As they emerged into the street, Shorty pounced upon them. "Come quick! There's a whole band of women from Faouët going to have ​their sickles blessed. Oh, it's too bad the light is going, I can't get a picture. It's fine, it's wonderful!"

      Miss Bently's flat brown figure frantically beckoned them to hasten, and the three ran forward to the stone wall on which she stood, commanding a view of the church doors over the swaying heads of the crowd. A band of thirty or more women were forming in line, their black skirts kilted high, showing heavy ribbed stockings and wooden shoes. Their hard, weather-worn faces framed in the black triangular shawls that hung from under round black caps, similar to those worn by the priests of the Greek Church. In their hands they held new sickles, some naked and gleaming, some wrapped in wisps of wheat straw. Some argument of precedence was evidently in progress, which, being at last compromised, the strange procession disappeared under the sculptured arches of the portico.

      "Where is the miraculous fountain, Shorty?" Sonia inquired, as the thinning crowd permitted them to descend from their perch.

      ​"Over here. Follow me; it's a sight; Boston and I have been prospecting."

      Elbowing their way across the "place," by the medal-sellers, and the mushroom villages of candlemongers, they became involved in a temporary street of cider tents, wherein, bronzed and bedecked, the men of Brittany, like men the world over, comforted first the body before grappling with that illusive and unsatisfactory thing—the soul. Under the brown sail awnings they sat, on long oak benches, drinking gravely and without noise, as is the fashion of that strange race, that takes all its pleasures, even dancing, as if Weltschmerz were the impulse. They regarded the foreigners with amiable curiosity, commenting aloud and unabashed in their rough, guttural Celtic, which is identical with the ancient and fast-disappearing language of Cornwall. To the right of the Scala Santa, the four came upon the fountain, a large and inartistic stone monument, presenting to the public a huge sign, "Beware of pickpockets," and four granite shells, from which the water flowed through sunken cisterns, resembling the tanks of a natatorium. Wide stone steps ​led down, and every available inch of the approaches was crowded by the faithful, old and young, high and low, bonnet and coif together. The sightless washed their eyes in the healing waters, diseased skins were laved in it, open sores and wounds were soothed and cleansed, the idiotic were baptized, those sick of internal troubles lifted it to their lips and drank. The relatives of those too ill to come filled bottles from the pools, corked them, and preciously carried them away in their arms. The crowd of worshippers constantly