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It was a long argument, but the Doctor had a winning way, and at the end they were taken in,–more, they were fed in the big clean kitchen, and then each was sheltered in a huge room, with cement floor, scrupulously clean, with the quaint old furniture and the queer appointments of a French farmhouse.

The next morning, when the Doctor threw open the heavy wooden shutters to his window, he gave a whistle of delight to find himself looking out into what seemed to be a French Paradise–and better than that he had never asked.

It was a wilderness. Way off in the distance he got glimpses of broken walls with all kinds of green things creeping and climbing, and hanging on for life. Inside the walls there was a riot of flowers–hollyhocks and giroflees, dahlias and phlox, poppies and huge daisies, and roses everywhere, even climbing old tree trunks, and sprawling all over the garden front of the rambling house. The edges of the paths had green borders that told of Corbeil d’Argent in Midwinter, and violets in early spring. He leaned out and looked along the house. It was just a jumble of all sorts of buildings which had evidently been added at different times. It seemed to be on half a dozen elevations, and no two windows were of the same size, while here and there an outside staircase led up into a loft.

Once he had taken it in he dressed like a flash–he could not get out into that garden quickly enough, to pray the Widow to serve coffee under a huge tree in the centre of the garden, about the trunk of which a rude table had been built, and it was there that the Divorcee found him when she came out, simply glowing with enthusiasm–the house, the garden, the Widow, the day–everything was perfect.

While they were taking their coffee, poured from the earthen jug, in the thick old Rouen cups, the Divorcee said:

“How I’d love to own a place like this. No one would ever dream of building such a house. It has taken centuries of accumulated needs to expand it into being. If one tried to do the thing all at once it would look too on-purpose. This place looks like a happy combination of circumstances which could not help itself.”

“Well, why not? It might be possible to have just this. Let’s ask the Widow.”

So, when they were sitting over their cigarettes, and the old woman was clearing the table, the Doctor looked her over, and considered the road of approach.

She was a rugged old woman, well on toward eighty, with a bronzed, weather-worn face, abundant coarse gray hair, a heavy shapeless figure, but a firm bearing, in spite of her rounded back. As far as they could see, they were alone on the place with her. The Doctor decided to jump right into the subject.

“Mother,” he said, “I suppose you don’t want to sell this place?”

The old woman eyed him a moment with her sharp dark eyes.

“But, yes, Monsieur,” she replied. “I should like it very well, only it is not possible. No one would be willing to pay my price. Oh, no, no one. No, indeed.”

“Well,” said the Doctor, “how do you know that? What is the price?–Is it permitted to ask?”

The old woman hesitated,–started to speak–changed her mind, and turned away, muttering. “Oh, no, Monsieur,–it is not worth the trouble–no one will ever pay my price.”

The Doctor jumped up, laughing, ran after her, took her by the arm, and led her back to the table.

“Now, come, come, Mother,” he remarked, “let us hear the price at any rate. I am so curious.”

“Well,” said the Widow, “it is like this. I would like to get for it what my brother paid for it, when he bought it at the death of my father–it was to settle with the rest of the heirs–we were eight then. They are all dead but me. But no, no one will ever pay that price, so I may as well let it go to my niece. She is the last. She doesn’t need it. She has land enough. The cultivator has a hard time these days. It is as much as I can do to make the old place feed me and pay the taxes, and I am getting old. But no one will ever pay the price, and what will my brother think of me when the bon Dieu calls me, if I sell it for less than he paid? As for that, I don’t know what he’ll say to me for selling it at all. But I am getting old to live here alone–all alone. But no one will ever pay the price. So I may as well die here, and then my brother can’t blame me. But it is lonely now, and I am growing too old. Besides, I don’t suppose you want to buy it. What would a gentleman do with this?”