ow. I felt
anger and shame at hearing myself thus judged. But immediately I
considered that my father, not being so holy as I, could never share
with me the glory of the blessed, and this thought was for me a great
consolation.

Every Saturday we were taken to confession. If any one will tell me
why, he will greatly oblige me. The practice inspired me with both
respect and weariness. I hardly think it probable that M. le Cure took
a lively interest in hearing my sins; but it was certainly
disagreeable to me to cite them to him. The first difficulty was to
find them. You can perhaps believe me, when I declare that at ten
years of age I did not possess the psychic qualities and the methods
of analysis which would have made it possible rationally to explore my
inmost conscience. Nevertheless it was necessary to have sins: for--no
sins, no confession. I had been given, it is true, a little book which
contained them all: I had only to choose. But the choice itself was
difficult. There was so much obscurely said of "larceny, simony,
prevarication"! I read in the little book, "I accuse myself of having
despaired; I accuse myself of having listened to evil conversations."
Even this furnished little wherewith to burden my conscience.
Therefore ordinarily I confined myself to "distractions." Distractions
during mass, distractions during meals, distractions in "religious
assemblies,"--I avowed all; yet the deplorable emptiness of my
conscience filled me with deep shame. I was humiliated at having no
sins....

I will tell you what, each year, the stormy skies of autumn, the first
dinners by lamplight, the yellowing leaves on the shivering trees,
bring to my mind; I will tell you what I see as I cross the Luxembourg
garden in the early October days--those sad and beautiful days when
the leaves fall, one by one, on the white shoulders of the statues
there.

What I see then is a little fellow who with his hands in his pockets
is going to school, hopping along like a sparrow. I see him in thought
only, for he is but a shadow, a shadow of the "me" as I was
twenty-five years ago. Really, he interests me,--this little fellow.
When he was living I gave him but little thought, but now that he is
no more, I love him well. He was worth altogether more than the rest
of the "me's" that I have been since. He was a happy-hearted boy as he
crossed the Luxembourg garden in the fresh air of the morning. All
that he saw then I see to-day. It is