It was a charming picture in the eyes of a man to whom the feelings of robustness and health were mostly a reminiscence.

Yet, while the first impression was on him, he contrasted Sophie with the impetuous, fiery-hearted Christine, with her dramatic Gallic face and blood, to the latter's advantage, in spite of the more harmonious setting of this picture.
Sophie was in place in this old farmhouse, with its dormer windows, with the weaver's loom in the large kitchen, the meat-block by the fireplace, and the big bread-tray by the stove, where the yeast was as industrious as the reapers beyond in the fields.

She was in keeping with the chromo of the Madonna and the Child upon the wall, with the sprig of holy palm at the shrine in the corner, with the old King Louis blunderbuss above the chimney.
Sophie tried to take off her sunbonnet with one hand, but the knot tightened, and it tipped back on her head, giving her a piquant air.

She flushed.
"Oh, m'sieu'!" she said in English, "it's kind of you to call.

I am quite glad--yes." Then she turned round to put the strawberries upon a table, but he was beside her in an instant and took the dish out of her hands.