They were going along one of those narrow country lanes between farmyards, that are buried beneath a double row of beech trees, by the sides of the ditches, and suddenly they found themselves in front of a gate, over which there hung a young spruce-fir. "This is it," he said. She stopped suddenly and looked about her. The courtyard, which was planted with apple-trees, was large and extended as far as the small, thatched dwelling-house. Opposite to it, were the stable, the barn, the cow-house and the poultry-house, while the gig, wagon and the manure cart were under a slated outhouse. Four calves were grazing under the shade of the trees, and black hens were wandering all about the enclosure. All was perfectly still; the house door was open, but nobody was to be seen, and so they went in, when immediately a large, black dog came out of a barrel that was standing under a pear tree, and began to bark furiously. There were four bee-hives on boards against the wall of the house. Monsieur d'Apreval stood outside and called out: "Is anybody at home?" Then a girl appeared, a little girl of about ten, dressed in a chemise and a linen petticoat, with dirty, bare legs, and a timid and cunning look. She remained standing in the doorway, as if to prevent any one going in. "What do you want?" she asked. "Is your father in?" "No." "Where is he?" "I don't know." "And your mother?" "Gone after the cows." "Will she be back soon?" "I don't know." But suddenly, the old woman, as if she feared that he might force her to return, said quickly: "I will not go without having seen him." "We will wait for him, my dear friend." As they turned away, they saw a peasant woman coming towards the house, carrying two tin pails, which appeared to be heavy, and which glistened brightly in the sunlight. She limped with her right leg, and in her brown, knitted jacket, that was faded by the sun, and washed out by the rain, she looked like a poor, wretched, dirty servant. "Here is Mamma," the child said. When she got close to the house, she looked at the strangers angrily and suspiciously, and then she went in, as if she had not seen them. She looked old, and had a hard, yellow, wrinkled face, one of those wooden faces like country people so often have. Monsieur d'Apreval called her back. "I beg your pardon, Madame, but we came in to know whether you could sell us two glasses of milk." She was grumbling when she reappeared in the door, after putting down her pails. "I don't sell milk," she replied. "We are very thirsty," he said, "and Madame is old and very tired. Can we not get something to drink?" The peasant woman gave them an uneasy and cunning glance, and then she made up her mind.