It was a splendid idea, Cynthia admitted, as she followed Nancy into the little stone church. Surely every good Breton inhabitant of Le Conquet was present, the women in wide skirts trimmed with bands of black velvet, with full sleeves, and tight black bodices setting off the lace-trimmed white aprons, the frosty white caps of Breton lace and the wide lace collars. Here at least, all the lovely quaintness of medieval France had not gone down before the stupid uniform of store-bought gingham dresses. The men were no less picturesque, with their low crowned wide brimmed hats, the shining silver buttons on their short, black velvet coats. And each child was a miniature replica of its parents, with the exception of the caps which mark the married women. The small bleak church was warmed to light by the rustle of many garments, by the soft glow of candles and Cynthia was enchanted by the little ship-models that swung from the hand hewn rafters, all of them as perfect as skill and loving care could make them. “They are thank offerings for the safe return of the ships they represent,” Nancy whispered to her. “Oh look, Cindy; isn’t she a darling?” Her elbow nudged for Cynthia’s attention. The minute Cynthia saw her, her artist’s eye registered her as the one model for that Christmas cover. Such pansy-brown eyes, such soft curls around the little pink-cheeked face, such a dimpled round chin above the starched white collar and the tight little bodice, like a small child playing at grown-up. Cynthia nodded her approval of Nancy’s choice. “How nice,” she thought, “to be with artists again. Oh, I wish they could be with me all over France,” remembering her loneliness in Paris. After the service they edged their way toward the door, Cynthia keeping the child in sight all the way. The little girl’s mother, who walked behind her, was a larger edition of the same type and must have been lovely when she was young, but was now bent and weary eyed, like so many of the hard working Breton peasants. Nancy’s eyes had been roving the church. Now she gave Cynthia a reassuring nod. “Wait for me outside,” she commanded and wriggled away through the crowd. Cynthia, who was taller than most of the villagers, saw her stop at last before a woman in black and wearing a hat. Their own patronne from the hotel, very much in her Sunday best. Nancy waved to Cynthia, then the two disappeared, blotted out by the congregation. Five minutes later she joined Cynthia in the little square above the fountain. “It’s all right,” she reported triumphantly. “We identified your model and her mother, and Madame says she will ask her about posing.” That was fine. Cynthia already saw her cover, painted, delivered, printed, and exhibited on every Christmas news stand in New York. She drew a breath of relief.