The hot sun streamed down upon the narrow, ill-paved streets; little gutters trickled crookedly through their middle; the women toiled slowly up, keeping under the shade of gaunt, picturesque houses, all irregularly built, high and low, gabled and carved, delightfully artistic in their very defiance of proportion. Rough steps led up to the houses, great projecting blocks of stone ran along their front, with pots of bright flowers resting upon them: everywhere there were windows, up in the roofs, down in quaint unexpected corners,--clothes hung out of them, here and there long strings of peascods. Strange little stone workshops were built up by themselves in the street, so small that the workmen looked too big for them: every thing was shelving, dirty, picturesque. The people sat outside their houses, tight-capped children played about, the sun fell on them, on the gay flowers, the green peascods,--somehow or other from everywhere bright bits of colour flashed out gorgeously. Nannon, with her poor, weather-beaten face, and her shoulders broadened with labour, walked sturdily on in her blue stuff gown, a little shawl crossed under an enormously wide black waistband, a plain white cap pulled forward on her forehead, and slanting upwards behind,--gesticulating and talking in her high, shrill, unmodulated voice. Fanchon, by right of her basket, kept close beside her; last of all marched Veuve Angelin, half-curious and half-contemptuous. There is no news like one's own news. CHAPTER TWO. "A square-set man and honest." _The Holy Grail_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------