The priest had seen it, for he had the child pickaback and was running
across the sward. The woman had seen it, too, for she was already
collecting her baskets, preparing to follow, and I was not far behind.
Before she had reached the edge of the woods I had overtaken her, my
traps under my arm, my white umbrella over my head.
"The Chalet Cycle is the nearest," she volunteered, grasping the
situation, and pointing to a path opening to the right as she spoke.
"Is that where he has taken the child?" I asked, hurriedly.
"No, Monsieur--Susette has gone home. It is only a little way."
I plunged on through the wet grass, my eyes on the opening through the
trees, the rain pouring from my umbrella. Before I had reached the end
of the path the rain ceased and the sun broke through, flooding the wet
leaves with dazzling light.
These two, the clouds and the sun, were evidently bent on mischief,
frightening little waves and painters and bright-eyed children and good
priests who loved them!
A PROCESSION OF UMBRELLAS
II
Do you happen to know the Chalet Cycle?
If you are a staid old painter who takes life as he finds it, and who
loves to watch the procession from the sidewalk without any desire to
carry one of the banners or to blow one of the horns--one of your
three-meals-a-day, no heel-taps, and go-to-bed-at-ten-o'clock kind of a
man, then make a note of the Cycle.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133