carved oak chests below fixed into different parts of the wall. Evidently the whole family slept in this one room; and probably there was no other, for the sweet breath of cows came through a little arched doorway at one side.

These wooden box-beds, with their carved panels and neatly fastened bright-coloured curtains, make the inside of a Breton dwelling very picturesque, though even here, with this evidently costly furniture, the floor was of clay, trodden and uneven by the constant passage of cows, horses, and pigs, which all seemed to have free right of way, and fowls were clucking everywhere. We noticed wooden racks for spoons, like those in Yorkshire cottages.

As we went up to the huge open fireplace at the farther end of the long room, we saw a most beautiful and striking picture. Besides the usual small front window, there was in this house a larger open window looking west. This window was open, and through it the full light of the setting sun fell on the tall figure of an old woman lying outside a sort of tent-bed, and turned her faded green gown to an exquisite golden bronze.

"It is my mother," the farmer said. "She lies there always, for she is too feeble to move; but she is eighty, and she does not suffer." The old woman had a sweet old face, with very blue eyes, and she smiled at us as we went up to the bed. Nestling close against her head was a pretty little white kitten, which every now and then patted her playfully to remind her of its presence.

"Ah!" the farmer said, "it is her playfellow; my mother could not live without Mousseline."

We went back and dined at Le Faouët, and then started in the dusk for Quimperlé. Our driver had forgotten to

A DRIVE IN THE DARK.

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bring lamps, and seemed unable to borrow any. However, the landlord of the Lion d'Or, at Le Faouët, assured us that we should reach Quimperlé before dark, and that the horse certainly knew his way; but our silent driver, though it grew dark very soon, was utterly deaf to our request to drive faster. He made no answer, but went on at the most exasperating jog-trot, taking long naps; more than once he nearly rolled into the road. Finally coming to a very treeshadowed bit of road he waked up, grew frightened, looked cautiously into the bushes on each side the way, and urged his horse on faster, muttering something about "thieves."

At last we came to a cottage, the window glowing like a live coal for some distance before we approached it. Here the driver put the reins in my hand, rolled off his seat, and knocked loudly at the cottage door. The people had seemingly gone to sleep, for he was a long time before he returned with a bit of tallow candle. He lit this, and then putting it roughly into my hand, told me to hold it under the hood of the carriage lest it should blow out, without even saying "if you please."

It was not a pleasant holding, as the grease dripped, and the candle was blown out twice before we reached Quimperlé; but if all the townsfolk had not been gone to bed our passage through the streets would have had a comic effect even in the darkness, for the wretched little candle gave a starved light that must have made it look something like a flying glow-worm.

THE 'HE most delightful excursion to be made from Quim

perlé is to Pont Aven and its neighbourhood. The drive of rather more than ten miles is very pleasant, and the descent into the valley of the Aven, in which the charming little town lies, most picturesque. On all sides except that towards the sea the hills rise steeply.

The beautiful river winds along the valley at the foot of a succession of steep hills to the sea, six miles beyond Pont Aven. The water dashes over enormous blocks of stone; the quaint granite houses of the village nestle beside it under the wooded hills. The old saying was, “Pont Aven, ville de renom: quinze moulins, quatorze maisons." Numberless mills peep out among the rocks beside the river shaded by poplar-trees. Here and there these mills are connected by little bridges stretching from rock to rock.

The effect of the bright water foaming over the grey stones; the curious primitive dwellings, of which almost all the windows are different, and the very original dress of the women, give an indescribable charm to this sequestered little place, which seems to be almost as unso

phisticated as when Cambry visited it in 1794; when there was no doctor to be found in Pont Aven, when the inhabitants were only beginning to grow potatoes, and the millers fed their pigs on salmon-fry taken from the Aven.

Now-a-days there is a very large exportation of potatoes to England, and the sending them off is a remarkable sight.

The women look as if they had walked out of the illuminations to some old chronicle; and doubtless they wore in the time of Froissart almost the same high-crowned caps flat on the forehead, with long wings pinned together behind

the head so as to form a large triangle, and the enormous finely-gauffered, square-cornered collars reaching to the shoulders, and half way down the back, with white chemisettes, called guimpes, in front. The women of Pont Aven are said to be some of the best dancers in Brittany.

The breakfast at the Hôtel des Voyageurs was very pleasant, and the hotel itself, with its hospitable, genial landlady, Mademoiselle Julia Guillou, deserves a special mention; indeed, it is impossible to overpraise the kindness shown by Mademoiselle Julia to her guests. She is held in the highest estimation in the district. Her hotel is frequented by artists of all nations, who seem almost to monopolise it.

After breakfast we went to the farm of Kergoa to see a threshing machine worked by horses; hitherto we had only seen the flail-beating process. This horse-machine is even more picturesque. A Breton boy in a blouse and broadleaved hat stood in the centre, whip in hand, and regulated the pace of six horses, which moved round and round in pairs. Within the circle made by the horses a pretty barefooted girl pushed the turning handle, while a man and several women were busy feeding the machine as it went round; overhead were spreading trees, and close by was a huge golden wheat-stack. Near this farm are two enormous boulders, one of them evidently Druidical; but the finest of these relics in this neighbourhood is a menhir on the road to Nevez, about a kilomètre from Pont Aven.

Early next morning we went to a very curious little chapel on the top of a hill, called Tre Malo. Every window in this chapel is of different design; the arches and pillars inside are very curious; scarcely two are alike,