ABSTRACT
THE little village of Leoville is one of those small jewels which sparkle in the rich diadem of Normandy. It is to-day what it was four centuries back. The same river, the same church, the same parsonage serve it now as served it in days lost to memory. No impulse from the great world without ever agitates Leoville. The villagers scarcely heed the passage of years. Monarchy, Republic, Empire, these are but vague terms to them. Those who are fortunate enough to discover this beautiful spot are drawn irresistibly into its old-world oblivions, and each century becomes merged in the other.
