Cynthia surveyed the clear stretch of deserted sand, and Nancy’s brief little bathing suit with a longing eye. “I won’t go swimming for a day or two, I guess,” she decided. “This cold doesn’t seem to get any better and I’d rather not risk it.” She wondered if she were being old-maid fussy about herself. Breakfast was a delightfully informal meal, at almost any hour of the morning, and in the inn parlor, not the dining room. Here the ceiling quivered with reflections from the sunspangled river. On the second morning Nancy brought to breakfast a large, mysterious bag, and when she had received her huge bowl of _café au lait_, weak coffee made with milk, she opened the paper bag and dumped a handful of what appeared to be rolled oats, raw, into her bowl. “What on earth is that?” asked Cynthia. “That’s my breakfast food, want to try some?” Cynthia shook her head, “Goodness no. But where can you get breakfast food, American style, in a paper bag, in a French village?” “Feed store,” mumbled Nancy around her large spoonful. “It’s just chicken feed. Bran. I get so hungry by noon, with these continental breakfasts.” “How about an egg?” was Cynthia’s suggestion. “Soft boiled.” “Try and get it.” Nancy’s tone was amused. Cynthia struggled with the hard-to pronounce _oeuf_. Shortly it came, all alone on a small dish. It was hot, so it must have been in hot water. But when she broke it ... “Ugh! It’s completely raw!” “They simply won’t boil it any longer, unless you want a twenty minute egg, like a rock,” explained Nancy. “It’s one of the unsolved mysteries of the French cuisine. You’ll come to chicken-feed yet!” Meanwhile the time was passing. Cynthia had arrived on a Thursday, Sunday had rolled round, her Christmas cover must go off to Paris this week, and she seemed no nearer it than the week before. In fact, so far, she hadn’t seen any children that looked paintable. “They are pretty enough,” she mourned, at breakfast on Sunday. “But it’s merely a matter of color with them. I haven’t seen a single child that I thought would make a good poster cover.” Mrs. Brewster nodded. “I know. But some of the old people are marvelous. There are no better types for models of old people in all of France.” “But not for the Christmas cover of a children’s magazine. Unless ... there is a thought, I give them a Breton Santa Claus.” “No whiskers on ’em here.” Nancy was most discouraging. “What have you to suggest, Mother?” “Hark, there’s the church bell. I suggest that you two hurry into your best bonnets and shawls and go to church. All the village will be there and you will have a good chance to look them over. Then if you find what you want I’ll ask Madame, our patronne, to introduce us. Hurry now!”