And those unfortunate chimes have nearly passed out of memory with the lapse of years.  The “Silent Chimes” they are always called when, by chance, allusion is made to them, and will be so called for ever.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOS, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF “THROUGH HOLLAND,” “LETTERS FROM MAJORCA,” ETC.  ETC.

Still we had not visited le Folgoet, and it had to be done.

“No one ever leaves our neighbourhood without having seen le Folgoet,” said M. Hellard.  “Or if he does so he loses the best thing we can offer him in the way of excursions.  Also, he must expect no luck in his future travels through Brittany.”

[Illustration:  MORLAIX.]

“And he must be looked upon in the light of a barbare,” chimed in Madame.  “Not to do le Folgoet would be almost as bad as not going to confession in Lent.”

“My dear, did you go to confession in Lent?” asked Monsieur, slily.

“Monsieur Hellard,” laughed Madame, blushing furiously, “I am a good Catholic.  Ask no questions.  We were speaking of Folgoet.  Everyone should go there.”

“Is the excursion, then, to be looked upon as a pilgrimage, or a penance?” we asked.  “Will it absolve us from our sins, or grant us indulgences?  Is there some charm in its stones, or can we drink of its waters and return to our first youth?”

“The magic spring!” laughed Mme. Hellard.  “You will find it at the back of the church.  I have drunk of its waters, certainly; on a very hot day last summer.  They refreshed me, but I still feel myself mortal.”

“Ah, yes,” cried Monsieur, “the waters of Lethe and the elixir vitae have equally to be discovered.  I imagine that they belong to Paradise—­and we have lost Paradise, you know:  though I have found my Eve,” added Monsieur, with a gallant bow to his cara sposa; “and have been in Paradise ever since.”

“You, apparently, have found and drunk of the waters of Lethe,” laughed Madame.  “You forget all our numerous quarrels and disagreements.”

“Thunderstorms are said to clear the air,” returned Monsieur; “but ours have been mere summer lightning.  That, you know, is not dangerous, and beautifies the horizon.”

It was the day of our visit to St. Jean du Doigt, and we had seriously fallen out with our coachman by the way.  St. Jean had so charmed us that we felt reluctant to leave it.  The little inn, quiet and solitary, with its windows open to the sunshine, its snow-white cloth, its wealth of creeper and blossom trailing up the walls and sunning over the roof, invited us to enter and be happy; to revel in the outer scene, sylvan, rustic, ecclesiastical, an overflow of the beauties of earth, sky, sunshine and ancient architecture.  Here was an earthly paradise; it might still be ours for some golden moments.  Yet we threw away our opportunity; as we so often do in life in far weightier matters than taking luncheon at a village inn.