M. Masson was connected, in one way or another, with nearly every one in the neighbourhood, and the little church of St. Sauveur was crowded with the friends and relatives all in deep black, the men wearing a band of crape on the arm. Over the church door was a sort of black lambrequin with the letter M. embroidered in silver. As the funeral passed through the streets, the "_suisse_," the clergy, and the mourners, following the hearse on foot, made an impressive and solemn sight. As the cortège passed, all who met it bowed their heads or removed their hats, as is the custom all over Europe. The only thing out of place seemed to be the ugly wreaths made of black, white, and purple beads, with which the hearse was covered. To our taste they seem hideous, but Germaine thought the white bead lilies with black jet leaves very beautiful, for she was used to seeing the graves in the small cemetery covered with such tributes. CHAPTER VI. GERMAINE AND THE ARTIST ALL artists are fond of painting French country life, and there is no part that they like better than the picturesque old villages, farms, and apple-orchards of Normandy, while perhaps Les Andelys is one of their favourite stopping-places. Germaine had made many friends among them, for they often came to draw or paint the quaint jumble of old buildings at La Chaumière. Germaine and the English artist who was staying at the Belle Étoile were great friends. He was painting near the farm, and he often dropped in to sit in their garden and drink a glass of cider. This warm bright morning Germaine could see his white umbrella under the apple-trees, whereupon she ran into the _laiterie_ where her mamma was putting away butter in stone jars for winter use. "Mamma, I see that Mr. Thomson is painting again in the field. It is so hot. May I not take him a glass of cider?" "Yes, truly, my little one, but do not stay too long, for I shall need you later to help me." Madame Lafond knew that when her little daughter was watching the painting of a picture, she would forget all about how time flies. Germaine went into the dark cellar where the large casks of cider were kept cool, and drawing off a jug full, took a glass, and holding an umbrella over her, carefully carried it down the hillside to Mr. Thomson, who was lying full length on the grass, smoking vigorously and scowling at his picture. "Oh, Germaine," he called out, when he caught sight of her, "you are a jewel, a good little girl to bring me a cold drink. It was just what I wanted, and I was too lazy to walk up to the farm and ask for it. I am stuck and can't do a bit of work. I don't believe this picture is good for anything, after all." Germaine could not believe this, for had she not heard Mr. Carter tell of pictures that Mr. Thomson had sold for so many thousands of francs that it took away her breath. Besides, did it not look just like her papa's wheat-field, with a bit of the river showing between the trees?