I was aroused by a big pink rose which hit me squarely on the mouth. Sweetheart was perched in the window seat above, and as I looked up she
sent a shower of blossoms down upon me. "Jack, you lazy creature, it's five o'clock, and I'm dressed and ready
for a walk!" "So am I," I said, jumping up. "But not like that. You must come up and make yourself nice for dinner." "Nice? What's the matter with these tweeds? Aren't these new stockings
presentable?" "Look at your hair!" she said evasively. "Come up this minute and brush
it." I went, and was compelled to climb into a white collar and shirt, and
trousers of an English cut. But before we had gone far along the great
military road that climbed the heights above the little river, I took
Sweetheart's hand in mine and imparted to her my views and intentions
upon the subject of my costume for the future. "You see, dearest, we are here in Brittany for three reasons. The
first is, that I should paint outdoors. The second is, that we should
economize like the deuce. The third is, our shadows----"

"I know," she interrupted faintly. "Never mind, Jack, dear." We walked silently for a while, hand clasping hand very tightly, for we
were both thinking of the third reason. I broke the silence first, speaking cheerfully, and she looked up with
a quick smile while the shadow fell from her brow. "You see, dear, in this place, where we are going, there are no people
but peasants. Your frocks are all right for a place like this; we
must both wear our free-and-easy togs--I for painting, and you for
scrambling about after your wild flowers or fishing with me. If you get
tired of seeing me in corduroys or tweeds, I'll dress for you when you
think you can't stand it any longer." "Oh, Jack, I do like your knickerbockers----"

"And you shall wear your most gorgeous gown for me----"

"Indeed I won't," she laughed, adding impulsively, "indeed I
will--every day, if you wish it!" At the top of the hill stood an ancient Ursuline convent surrounded
by a high wall, which also inclosed the broad acres of the wealthy
sisterhood. We sat down by the roadside hedge and looked across the
valley, where the hurrying river had ceased to hasten and now lingered
in placid pools and long, deep reaches. The sun had set behind the
forest, and the sky threw a purple light over woods and meadow. The
grassy pools below were swept by flocks of whistling martins and
swallows. One or two white gulls flapped slowly toward the tide water
below, and a young curlew, speeding high overhead, uttered a lonesome
cry. The grass--the brilliant green grass of Brittany--had turned a
deep metallic blue in the twilight. A pale primrose light grew and died
in the sky, and the forest changed from rose to ashes. Then a dull red
bar shot across the parting clouds in the west, the forest smouldered
an instant, and the pools glowed crimson. Slowly the red bar melted
away, the light died out among the branches, the pools turned sombre. Looking up, we saw the new moon flashing in the sky above our heads. Sweetheart sighed in perfect contentment. "It's beautiful!" I said, with another sigh. "Ah, yes," she murmured, "beautiful to you, and to me--to me, Jack, who
have never before seen this land of Morbihan." After a while she said, "And the ocean--oh, how I long to see it! Is it
near us, Jack?" "The river runs into it twenty kilometres below. We feel the tide at
Quimperlé." I did not add, "Baedeker." "I wonder," I said presently, "what are the feelings of a little
American who sees this country--the real country--for the first time?" "I suppose you mean me," she said. "I don't know--I don't think I
understand it yet, but I know I shall love it, and never want to go
back." "Perhaps we never shall," I said. "The magic second may stretch into
years that end at last as all ends." Then our hands met in that sudden nervous clasp which seemed to help
and steady us when we were thinking of the real world, so long, so long
forgotten. IX. I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face,
which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but she
fled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat she
taunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowed
to the inevitable--indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to five
o'clock. Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted my
coffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down to
the bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched,
shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks. It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get away
from the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart's open admiration, pulled
boldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. The
river up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped and
flowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to take
the oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swung
down the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insisted
on anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water was
likely enough, and the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to its
likelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one of
the flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within five
feet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neither
grilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and I
only hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs and
covered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales. Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely shared
my disappointment. "They are splendid fish," she repeated; "you are unreasonable." There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulky
attitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines and
snares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returned
civilly enough. "Are there trout in this stream?" "About the bridge," he replied cautiously. "Have you caught any?" "I ain't fishing," he said, much alarmed. "What's that?" I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw,
floating on the end of a string under the bank. "Where?" he asked, looking about him with affected concern. "There!" He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined the
horizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig. I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish. "Ma doui!" he exclaimed, "there _is_ a fish!" "Yes, a trout," I said. "Trout?" He burst into a forced laugh. "Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur,
that is a dace--a poor little dace!" He hastily jerked it up with a
long homemade gaff which lay--of course quite by accident--at his feet. "A poor little dace!" he mumbled. "Of course, monsieur would not care
to claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eat
it--ah, yes, only too glad!"