r sunshine all
passed off in the same fashion as during preceding summers; the
same games with my loyal band, the expeditions to the vineyards and
mountains; in the ruins of Castelnau, the same brooding over mediaeval
times, and, in the sequestered woodland path where we had struck our
vein of silver, we still eagerly turned up the red soil, putting on
meantime the airs of bold adventurers,--the little Peyrals, however, no
longer believed in the mines.

These beginnings of summer, always so alike, deluded me into thinking
that in spite of my occasional fears my childhood would be indefinitely
prolonged; but I no longer felt "joy at waking;" a sort of disquietude,
such as oppresses one when he has left his duty undone, weighed upon me
more and more heavily each morning when I thought that time was flying,
that the vacation would soon be over, and that I still lacked the
courage to come to a decision in regard to my future.

CHAPTER LXXX.

And one day, when September was more than half over, I realized, because
of the particularly torturing anxiety I felt when I waked, that I must
no longer defer the matter--the term which I had allotted to myself was
over.

In my heart of hearts I had more than half determined what my decision
was to be; but before it could be rendered effective it was necessary
for me to avow it, and I promised myself that the day should not pass
away without my having, as courageously as possible, accomplished that
task. It was my intention to first confide in my brother; for although
I feared that in the beginning he would oppose me with all his power, I
hoped that he would finally take my part and help me carry the day.

Therefore, after the mid-day dinner, when the sun was hottest, I carried
my pen and paper into my uncle's garden, and I locked myself in there
for the purpose of writing my letter. It was one of my boyhood habits
to study or write in the open air, and often I chose the most singular
places--tree-tops or the roof--for my work.

It was a hot and cloudless September afternoon. The old garden, silent
and melancholy as ever, gave me, strangely enough, more than the
customary feeling of regret that I was so far away from my mother, that
all of summer would pass without my seeing my home and the flowers in
the beloved little yard. And then, too, what I was upon the point of
writing would result in separating me farther from all that I loved, and
for that reason I felt extra