Miles up the stream, dreary, dreary; poplars leaning aslant from the
wind, low mud-banks, beds of osiers, reeds, rushes, willows; poplars
standing erect as a regiment in line, as many regiments, a gray monotony
of poplars; the tide flowing higher, laving the reeds, the sallows, all
pallid with mist and soft driving rain. A gleam of sun on a lawn, on
roses, on a conical red roof; orchards, houses here and there, with
shutters closed, and the afternoon sun hot upon them; acres of
market-garden, artichokes, flat fields, a bridge, rushy ditches, tall
array of poplars repeated and continued endlessly.

"I think," said Bessie, "I shall hate a poplar as long as I live!"

Mr. Carnegie agreed that the scenery was not enchanting. Beautiful
France is not to compare with the beautiful Forest. Harry Musgrave was
in no haste with his opinion; he was looking out for Caen, that ancient
and famous town of the Norman duke who conquered England. He had been
reading up the guide-book and musing over history, while Bessie had been
letting the poplars weigh her mind down to the brink of despondency.

A repetition of the noisy landing at Havre, despatch of baggage to
Madame Fournier's, everybody's heart failing for fear of that august,
unknown lady. A sudden resolution on the doctor's part to delay the
dread moment of consigning Bessie to the school-mistress until evening,
and a descent on Thunby's hotel. A walk down the Rue St. Jean to the
Place St. Pierre, and by the way a glimpse, through an open door in a
venerable gateway, of a gravelled court-yard planted with sycamores and
surrounded by lofty walls, draped to the summit with vines and ivy; in
the distance an arcade with vistas of garden beyond lying drowsy in the
sunshine, the angle of a large mansion, and fluttering lilac wreaths of
wisteria over the portal.