Page:Hopkinson Smith--armchair at the inn.djvu/332

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.


HOWEVER serious the talk of the night before—and Herbert’s pathetic story of the poor mould-maker was still in our memory when we awoke—the effect was completely dispelled as soon as we began to breathe the air of the out of doors.

The weather helped—another of those caressing Indian-summer days—the sleepy sun with half-closed eyes dozing at you through its lace curtains of mist; every fire out and all the windows wide open.

Leà helped. Never were her sabots so active nor so musical in their scuffle: now hot milk, now fresh coffee, now another crescent—all on the run, and all with a spontaneous, uncontrollable laugh between each serving—all the more unaccountable as of late the dear old woman’s face, except at brief intervals, had been as long as an undertaker’s.

And Mignon helped!

Helped? Why, she was the whole programme—with another clear, ringing, happy