“Don’t be so absurd. What does it matter? The others are awaiting us.” They went slowly down the hill, and came in sight of the “Moulin d’Or.” “Isn’t it disgusting,” remarked Louise, “how these speculative builders are always spoiling the old inns?” “I don’t see it’s spoilt,” answered her father petulantly. “You are ridiculous, papa! Any one can see the inn isn’t half as nice as it was.” As they approached the forecourt of the inn, a girl came out carrying a pail. She had dark eyes, blue-black hair, and a swinging carriage. Yes, yes, there was no doubt about it. She was the spit and image of her mother. As she approached she smiled pleasantly, and said: “Good evening, _mesdames_; a pleasant journey. Good evening, monsieur.” The ladies returned a friendly greeting, and Monsieur Roget suddenly turned to the girl and said: “Is your grandfather alive or dead?” She continued smiling, and replied: “I do not remember my grandfather, monsieur.” No, perhaps not; it was thirty-seven years ago, and old Couturier was an old man then. Perhaps not. “Papa, can’t you see she’s going to the well to fetch water? Why don’t you offer to help her?” “Eh? No, I’m not going. Let her fetch it herself!” “Papa!” They walked on in silence till well out of hearing, when Louise exclaimed: “Really, papa, I can’t understand you. So ungallant! It’s not like you. You ought to have offered to fetch the water for her, even if she refused.” “Eh? Oh, no! I wasn’t going. Very dangerous. You might fall down and sprain your ankle. Oh, no! Or she might fall down, or something. It’s very slippery up there by the well. You’re not going to get me to do it. Let her fetch her own water. Oh, no! no, no, no, no!” “Louise dear,” remarked Madame Roget. “Let us hurry. Your father is most queer. I always warn him, but it is no good. If he sleeps in the afternoon he always gets an indisposition.” A SOURCE OF IRRITATION A SOURCE OF IRRITATION To look at old Sam Gates you would never suspect him of having nerves. His sixty-nine years of close application to the needs of the soil had given him a certain earthy stolidity. To observe him hoeing, or thinning out a broad field of turnips, hardly attracted one’s attention. He seemed so much part and parcel of the whole scheme. He blended into the soil like a glorified swede. Nevertheless, the half-dozen people who claimed his acquaintance knew him to be a man who suffered from little moods of irritability. And on this glorious morning a little incident annoyed him unreasonably. It concerned his niece Aggie. She was a plump girl with clear blue eyes and a face as round and inexpressive as the dumplings for which the county was famous. She came slowly across the long sweep of the downland and putting down the bundle wrapped up in a red handkerchief which contained his breakfast and dinner, she said: “Well, uncle, is there any noos?”