The kitchen itself is roomy and neat; the floor is of large, flat stones, the square embrasures of the windows are relieved with earthen pots of flowers.  Full panoply of tins and trenchers and other implements of cheer hang in order against the walls or line the worn wooden shelves,—­many of them strange in shape and of unconjectured use.  Over all, there is that deft, subtle knowledge of place displayed by its busy inmate, a lifelong wontedness to surroundings, indefinable and unconscious, which fascinates us, and which reminds us that the same scene may be to one habituated to it the most iterated of commonplace and to new-comers often alive with novelty and interest.

At the window, meanwhile, other tragedies are enacted.  The daughter is not idle.  Here is a low, tiled shelf, with three square, sunken hollows, each lined with tiling and bottomed by an iron grating.  Into these have been thrown small embers from the fire; the draught fans them into a flame, and above, three flat pans make their toothsome holdings to sizzle and sputter with infinite zest.  This arrangement serves to the full every purpose of an oven, and does away with the range and all its cumbrous accompaniments.  One is impressed with its obvious but effective simplicity.

In very brief time an appetizing dejeuner of seven courses is being ceremoniously served in the now airy dining-room,—­interrupted throughout, to the good woman’s unlessened wonder and our own enjoyment, by the journeys of some of us across to the kitchen at the end of each course to watch the preparation of the next.

The dame thaws out momently under our evident good-will, and as she brings in the cherries and cakelets, she ventures in turn to stand near the door, and is even pleased when we renew the conversation.  Her husband, we learn, used to have charge of a little customs-station near the frontier; now they have this inn; it is pleasanter for him; one offends so many in a customs-post.  They put by something each year; it is not much; many pause here during the summer, coming from Eaux Bonnes or Cauterets.  Some seasons there are diligences running, which is better; for without them many go around by the railroad.

“But you, madame,” I ask,—­“you have traveled too by the railroad?”

“Yes, monsieur, a little; we have been several times to Pau; once we were at Bayonne.”

“And do you prefer the cities?”

“We like better the mountains, monsieur; one can breathe here, and is not dependent.”

The charge for the luncheon would be three francs each; she is glad that her visitors have been pleased; and our extra gratuity is the more appreciated because it seems wholly unexpected.

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