The crowing
of a rooster and the barking of a dog fell on her ear like
familiar music.
"It's a comfort to hear something speak English," she sighed, "even if
it's nothing but a chicken. I do wish that Cousin Kate wouldn't be so
particular about my using French all day long. The one little half-hour
at bedtime when she allows me to speak English isn't a drop in the
bucket. It's a mercy that I had studied French some before I came, or I
would have a lonesome time. I wouldn't be able to ever talk at all."
It was getting cold up in the pear-tree. Joyce shivered and stepped down
to the limb below, but paused in her descent to watch a peddler going
down the road with a pack on his back.
"Oh, he is stopping at the gate with the big scissors!" she cried, so
interested that she spoke aloud. "I must wait to see if it opens."
There was something mysterious about that gate across the road. Like
Monsieur Greville's, it was plain and solid, reaching as high as the
wall. Only the lime-trees and the second story windows of the house
could be seen above it. On the top it bore an iron medallion, on which
was fastened a huge pair of scissors. There was a smaller pair on each
gable of the house, also.
During the three months that Joyce had been in Monsieur Greville's
home, she had watched every day to see it open; but if any one ever
entered or left the place, it was certainly by some other way than this
queer gate.
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