Her daughter swept the Den and lit the
_fourneau_ for _la famille anglaise_ in the mornings, and the mother,
knowing a little English, spelt out the weather reports in the _Daily
Surprise_ she sometimes brought.
Meanwhile the three travellers had crossed the railway line, where
Jimbo detained them for a moment's general explanation, and passed the
shadow of the sentinel poplar. The cluster of spring leaves rustled
faintly on its crest. The village lay behind them now. They turned a
moment to look back upon the stretch of vines and fields that spread
towards the lake. From the pool of shadow where the houses nestled
rose the spire of the church, a strong dark line against the fading
sunset. Thin columns of smoke tried to draw it after them. Lights
already twinkled on the farther shore, five miles across, and beyond
these rose dim white forms of the tremendous ghostly Alps. Dusk slowly
brought on darkness.
Jimbo began to hum the song of the village he had learned in school--
P'tit Bourcelles sur sa colline
De partout a gentille mine;
On y pratique avec success
L'exploitation du francais,
and the moment it was over, his sister burst out with the question
that had been buzzing inside her head the whole time--
'How long are you going to stay?' she said, as they climbed higher
along the dusty road.
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