The track led down into a hollow, some acres broad, like a saucer scooped between two slopes of the moor; and in the middle of it—just low enough to be hidden from the valley beneath—stood a whitewashed farmhouse, with a courtlege in front and green-painted gate; and by this gate three persons watched us as we came—a man and two women.
The man by his dress was plainly a farmer; and catching sight of me, he called out something I could not understand, and turned towards the woman beside him, whom I took to be his wife. But the other woman, who stood some paces away, was a very different person—tall and slight, like a lady; grey-haired, and yet not seeming old; with long white hands and tiny high-heeled shoes, and dressed in black silk, with a lace shawl crossed over her shoulders, and a silver whistle hanging from her neck. She came forward, holding out a handful of sugar, and spoke to the mare, if you'll believe me, in my very own Breton,
"Good Lilith!" said she. "Ah, what a mess for me to groom! See what a coat! Good Lilith!" Then, as Lilith munched the sugar—"Who are you, little boy? I never saw you before. Explain yourself, kindly, little boy."
"My name is Yann," said I; "Yann Riel. I am from Roscoff, and—O how tired, madame!"
"He is Breton! He speaks the Breton!" She clapped her hands, drew me down from my seat, and kissed me on both cheeks.
