[Illustration:  Where Joyce lived]

Luckily the locomotive whistled just then, and the novelty of getting aboard a train for the first time, helped her to be brave at the parting.  She stood on the rear platform of the last car, waving her handkerchief to the group at the station as long as it was in sight, so that the last glimpse her mother should have of her, was with her bright little face all ashine.

All these pictures passed so rapidly through Joyce’s mind, that she had retraced the experiences of the last three months in as many minutes.  Then, somehow, she felt better.  The tears had washed away the ache in her throat.  She wiped her eyes and climbed liked a squirrel to the highest limb that could bear her weight.

This was not the first time that the old pear-tree had been shaken by Joyce’s grief, and it knew that her spells of homesickness always ended in this way.  There she sat, swinging her plump legs back and forth, her long light hair blowing over the shoulders of her blue jacket, and her saucy little mouth puckered into a soft whistle.  She could see over the high wall now.  The sun was going down behind the tall Lombardy poplars that lined the road, and in a distant field two peasants still at work reminded her of the picture of “The Angelus.”  They seemed like acquaintances on account of the resemblance, for there was a copy of the picture in her little bedroom at home.

All around her stretched quiet fields, sloping down to the ancient village of St. Symphorien and the river Loire.  Just across the river, so near that she could hear the ringing of the cathedral bell, lay the famous old town of Tours.  There was something in these country sights and sounds that soothed her with their homely cheerfulness.  The crowing of a rooster and the barking of a dog fell on her ear like familiar music.

“It’s a comfort to hear something speak English,” she sighed, “even if it’s nothing but a chicken.  I do wish that Cousin Kate wouldn’t be so particular about my using French all day long.  The one little half-hour at bedtime when she allows me to speak English isn’t a drop in the bucket.  It’s a mercy that I had studied French some before I came, or I would have a lonesome time.  I wouldn’t be able to ever talk at all.”

It was getting cold up in the pear-tree.  Joyce shivered and stepped down to the limb below, but paused in her descent to watch a peddler going down the road with a pack on his back.

“Oh, he is stopping at the gate with the big scissors!” she cried, so interested that she spoke aloud.  “I must wait to see if it opens.”

There was something mysterious about that gate across the road.  Like Monsieur Greville’s, it was plain and solid, reaching as high as the wall.  Only the lime-trees and the second story windows of the house could be seen above it.  On the top it bore an iron medallion, on which was fastened a huge pair of scissors.  There was a smaller pair on each gable of the house, also.