as of durable stuff called home-spun,
woven in the country by native weavers. (Our house was still furnished
as it had been in my maternal grandmother's time, as she had arranged
it after she had quitted the Island, and come to the mainland.--A
little later I will speak of this Island which had already a mysterious
attraction for my youthful imagination.--It was a simple country house,
notable for its Huguenot austerity; and it was a home where immaculate
cleanliness and extreme order were the sole luxuries.)

In the circle of light, which grew ever more and more narrow, I still
jumped; but as I did so I had thoughts that were of an intensity not
habitual with me. At the same time that my tiny limbs discovered their
power, my spirit also knew itself; a burst of light overspread my mind
where dawning ideas still showed forth feebly. And it is without doubt
to the inner awakening that this fleeting moment of my life owes its
existence, owes undoubtedly its permanency in memory. But vainly I seek
for the words, that seem ever to escape me, through which to express my
elusive emotions. . . . Here in the dining-room I look about and see the
chairs standing the length of the wall, and I am reminded of the aged
grandmother, grand-aunts and aunts who always come at a certain hour
and seat themselves in them. Why are they not here now? At this moment I
would like to feel their protecting presence about me. Probably they are
upstairs in their rooms on the second floor; between them and me there
is the dim stairway, the stairway that I people with shadowy beings the
thought of which makes me tremble. . . . And my mother? I would wish
most especially for her, but I know that she has gone out, gone out into
the long streets which in my imagination have no end. I had myself gone
to the door with her and had asked her: "When returnest thou?" And she
had promised me that she would return speedily. Later they told me that
when I was a child I would never permit any members of the family to
leave the house to go walking or visiting without first obtaining their
assurance of a speedy homecoming. "You will come back soon?" I would
say, and I always asked the question anxiously, as I followed them to
the door.

My mother had departed, and it gave my heart a feeling of heaviness to
know that she was out. Out in the streets! I was content not to be there
where it was cold and dark, where little children so easily lost their
way,--how snug it