talking and laughing, and giving Andrè a poke now and then, crying 'E! E! houp la!' to make him go.
We found her a capital little guide and storyteller, for her grandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighbourhood, and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched, I took notes, and Marie held the big parasol over us.
Some of these stories were charming; at least as she told them, with her little face changing from gay to sad as she gesticulated most dramatically.
The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How he carried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he was imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and would stand at his
