The house was a large cottage, having around its door a slender gallery, at whose side went down a stair. Its chimnies were stout, and walls thick, its roof pitched very steep and clipped off short at the eaves; a garden of lilac-bushes and shrubs, some of which pressed their dark green against its spotless white-wash, surrounding it in front and on one side, while on the other lay the barn-yard, with a large wooden cross in its centre, protected by a railing. Two hundred years ago such houses were built in Brittany. Chrysler's glances took in with curiosity the tiny window up in the gable, the quaint-cut iron bars of the cellar openings, the small-paned sashes of the four front windows. Above the door, was the rude-cut inscription: A DIEU LA GLOIRE J.B. 1768. The fiddler drew his attention particularly, however, to the people on the gallery. There was one at least whom he had seen before. A _cavalier_ of much shirt-front and large mouth, and on whose make-up, Nature had printed "BAR-TENDER" in capitals--in short the "Spoon" of Zotique's reception--was sitting on the balustrade of the little gallery, making courtship over the shoulder of a dark-eyed maid, whose mother--a square-waisted archetype of her--stood in the door. Paterfamilias sat on the top step with his back to Chrysler, barring the stair rather awkwardly with his legs. A second young man slender, and dressed in a frock coat of black broad-cloth, and silk hat, and with face pale, but of undiscourageable obserfulness, though without doubt repulsed by the father's attitude from a front attack on the position, was taking the three steps in the garden necessary to bring him alongside the gallery. And, unobserved, down beside her dress, the maiden's fair hand was dropping him a sprig of lilac. Within, the grandfather bent crooked over his violin. Our traveller halted, there was a whisper, and the music stopped. "Salut, Monsieur," cried the householder, stumbling down the steps and hurrying half-way across the garden, where he took up a position, "Monsieur is tired. Will he honour my roof? All here is yours, and I and my family are at your service. Enter, Monsieur." A dramatic gesture of humility recalled at once the man in blue homespun, who had addressed the crowd at Zotique's. "Good evening, Mr. Benoit," the Ontarian said, opening the gate and mustering his French, "I shall be charmed." The air immediately bustled with hospitality. "Come in, sir, come in," feebly rasped the voice of the old man from the door. "Josephte, bring a chair for Monsieur." "I will fetch one!" cried the good-wife. The girl Josephte, rose from her seat and followed her mother quickly into the house; the pale young man in the garden doubled his cheerful smile; and only the bar-tender endued himself in an aggressive grin of independence.