The November night was cold and foggy, and there was little difference between the darkness of the suburbs and the darkness of the open country.

Once again the black hulls and masts of two steamers stood before us, at the end of our journey, and hurrying voices shouted, “This way for Jersey and Guernsey,” “This way to Havre.”  What would I not have given to return to Sark, to my quiet room under Tardif’s roof, with his true heart and steadfast friendship to rest upon!  But that could not be.  My feet were setting out upon a new track, and I did not know where the hidden path would lead me.

The next morning found us in France.  It was a soft, sunny day, with a mellow light, which seemed to dwell fondly on the many-tinted leaves of the trees which covered the banks of the Seine.  From Honfleur to Falaise the same warm, genial sunshine filled the air.  The slowly-moving train carried us through woods where the autumn seemed but a few days old, and where the slender leaflets of the acacias still fluttered in the caressing breath of the wind.  We passed through miles upon miles of orchards, where a few red leaves were hanging yet upon the knotted branches of the apple-trees, beneath which lay huge pyramids of apples.  Truck-loads of them stood at every station.  The air was scented by them.  Children were pelting one another with them; and here and there, where the orchards had been cleared and the trees stripped, flocks of geese were searching for those scattered among the tufts of grass.  The roses were in blossom, and the chrysanthemums were in their first glory.  The few countrywomen who got into our carriage were still wearing their snowy muslin caps, as in summer.  Nobody appeared cold and pinched yet, and everybody was living out-of-doors.

It was almost like going into a new world, and I breathed more freely the farther we travelled down into the interior.  At Falaise we exchanged the train for a small omnibus, which bore the name “Noireau” conspicuously on its door.  I had discovered that the little French I knew was not of much service, as I could in no way understand the rapid answers that were given to my questions.  A woman came to us, at the door of a cafe, where the omnibus stopped in Falaise, and made a long and earnest harangue, of which I did not recognize one word.  At length we started off on the last stage of our journey.

Where could we be going to?  I began to ask myself the question anxiously after we had crept on, at a dog-trot, for what seemed an interminable time.  We had passed through long avenues of trees, and across a series of wide, flat plains, and down gently-sloping roads into narrow valleys, and up the opposite ascents; and still the bells upon the horses’ collars jingled sleepily, and their hoof-beats shambled along the roads.  We were seldom in sight of any house, and we passed through very few villages.  I felt as if we were going all the way to Marseilles.