At Paimpol, one fine evening of this same year, upon a Sunday in June, two women were deeply busy in writing a letter.

This took place before a large open window, with a row of flowerpots on its heavy old granite sill.
As well as could be seen from their bending over the table, both were young.

Once wore a very large old-fashioned cap; the other quite a small one, in the new style adopted by the women of Paimpol.

They might have been taken for two loving lasses writing a tender missive to some handsome Icelander.
The one who dictated--the one with the large head-dress--drew up her head, wool-gathering.

Oh, she was old, very old, notwithstanding her look from behind, in her small brown shawl--we mean downright old.
A sweet old granny, seventy at least.