After leaving Annemasse, the road runs up the valley of the Arve and crosses a bridge over the Menoge.  Then comes the village of Nangy, and then Contamines, beyond which, on a bold height, stand the two wrinkled, crumbling towers of the ancient castle of Faucigny, whence the province takes its name.  It was at Nangy that a pretty incident befell our travellers.  On the outskirts of the village they met fifty or sixty school-children marching three abreast, the girls on one side of the road and the boys on the other.  The girls—­each in a coarse blue or yellow frock, with a snowy neckerchief pinned over her bosom and a pig-tail of hair hanging down her shoulders—­seemed for all the world like little old women; and not one of the little men appeared to be less than a hundred and five years old.  They suggested a collection of Shems and Japhets, with their wives, taken from a lot of toy Noah’s arks.  As the carriage rolled between the two files, all the funny little women bobbed a simultaneous courtesy, and all the little old-fashioned men lifted their hats with the most irresistible gravity conceivable.  “Fancy such a thing happening in the United States!” said Lynde.  “If we were to meet such a crowd at home, half a dozen urchins would immediately fasten themselves to the hind axle, and some of the more playful spirits would probably favor us with a stone or two, or a snowball, according to the season.”

“There comes the curee, now,” said Miss Denham.  “It is some Sunday-school fete.”

As the curee, a florid, stout person, made an obeisance and passed on, fanning himself leisurely with his shovel-hat, his simple round face and white feathery hair put Lynde in mind of the hapless old gentleman whom he mistook for the country parson that morning so long ago.  Instantly the whole scene rose before Lynde’s vision.  Perhaps the character of the landscape through which they were passing helped to make the recollection very vivid.  There was not a cloud in the pale arch; yonder were the far-reaching peaks with patches of snow on them, and there stretched the same rugged, forlorn hills, covered with dwarf bushes and sentinelled with phantom-like pines.  An odd expression drifted across Lynde’s countenance.

“What are you smiling at, Mr. Lynde, in that supremely selfish manner?” inquired Mrs. Denham, looking at him from under her tilted sun-umbrella.

“Was I smiling?  It was at those droll little beggars.  They bowed and courtesied in an unconcerned, wooden way, as if they were moved by some ingenious piece of Swiss clock-work.  The stiff old curee, too, had an air of having been wound up and set a-going.  I could almost hear the creak of his mainspring.  I was smiling at that, perhaps, and thinking how strongly the scenery of some portions of our own country resembles this part of Switzerland.”

“Do you think so?  I had not remarked it.”

“This is not the least like anything in the Adirondack region, for example,” observed Miss Ruth.