ut of bed, have himself quickly washed, and stand
quietly to have his blond curls combed out, and then run to find his
little friend. They embraced each other and prattled of the events of
the day before; sometimes Veronica, before coming to our house to wait
for Pierre, made a trip to the seashore and gathered an apron full of
the beautiful shells as a love offering to her sweetheart.

"One day, at about the end of August, after a long reverie, during which
Pierre had perhaps weighed and considered the difficult question of the
social difference between them, he said; 'Veronica you and I must get
married some day; I will ask permission of my parents when the time
comes.'"

Then my sister speaks of our departure:

"Upon the 15th of September it was necessary for us to leave the
village. Pierre had made a collection of shells, sea-weeds, star-fish
and pebbles; he was insatiable and wished to carry all of them away with
him, and with Veronica's aid he packed a great many into his boxes.

"One morning a large carriage arrived at St. Pierre to take us away. The
peace of the village was broken by the noise of the little bells and the
cracking of the driver's whip. Pierre with the greatest care placed his
own packets into the carriage and then we three quickly took our places.
With eyes full of sadness Pierre gazed out of the carriage window
towards the sandy path that led down to the beach--and at his little
friend who stood there weeping."

In conclusion I will copy word for word the reflection found at the end
of the faded book which was written down by my sister during that same
summer.

"Then, and not for the first time, I fell into an uneasy reverie that
had to do with Pierre, and I asked myself: 'What will become of the
little boy? And what will become of his little friend whose figure we
could still see outlined at the now far distant end of the road. How
much despair does that little heart feel; how much anguish at being thus
abandoned?'"

"What will become of that boy?" Alas! what indeed! His whole life was to
be similar to that summer of his childhood. To know the sorrow of
many farewells; to desire to take with me a thousand trifles of no
appreciable value, to hunger to have about me a world of beloved
souvenirs,--but especially to say good bye to wild little creatures
(loved perhaps just because they were ingenuous children of
nature),--these things were to make up the sum of my life.

The two or three