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.