rge trunks closed and locked, we
gathered in the parlor as solemnly as if we had come together for a
funeral. A chapter of the Bible was read and then we had family prayers.
. . . Four years! and during that time the width of the earth between us
and our loved one!

I recall particularly my mother's face during the farewell scene; she
was seated in an arm chair beside my brother. After the prayer she had
upon her face an infinitely sweet, but wistful smile, and an expression
of submissive trust; but suddenly an unexpected change came over her
features, and in spite of her efforts at self-control her tears flowed.
I had never before seen my mother weep, and it caused me the greatest
anguish.

The first few days after his departure I had a feeling of sadness, and I
missed him greatly; often and often I went into his room, and the
little treasures which he had confided to my care were as sacred as holy
relics.

Upon a map of the world I had my parents point out to me the route of
his journey, a journey which would take about five months. To me his
return belonged to an inconceivable and unreal future; and, most strange
of all, what spoiled for me the pleasure of his home-coming, was that I
at that time would be twelve or thirteen years of age--almost a big boy
in fact.

Unlike most other children,--especially unlike those of to-day--who are
eager to become men and women as speedily as possible, I had a terror
of growing up, which became more and more accentuated as I grew older. I
argued about it to myself, and I wrote about it, and when any one asked
me why I had such a feeling I answered, since I could not think of a
better reason: "It seems to me that it will be very wearisome to be
a man." I believe that it is an extremely singular state of mind, an
altogether unique one perhaps, this shrinking away from life at its
very beginning; I was not able to see a horizon before me: I could not
picture my future to myself as so many can; before me there was nothing
but impenetrable darkness, a great leaden curtain shut off my view.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Cakes, cakes, my good hot cakes!" Thus, in a plaintive voice, sang the
old woman peddler who regularly, upon winter evenings, during the first
ten or twelve years of my life, passed under our window.--When I think
of those bygone days I hear again her insistent refrain.

It is with the memory of Sundays that the song of the "good hot cakes"
is most closely associa