ate driving life on--the fate of
a temperament that restlessly longs for new impressions and intense
emotions, without the vigor of action that cuts the Gordian knot of
fancy and speculation with the swift sword-stroke of an heroic deed.

It is fortunate that the translator has caught the subtle charm of
Loti's style, so difficult to render in another speech, in an amazing
degree. This is peculiarly necessary here, for accuracy of translation
means giving the delicate changes of color and elusive chords of music
that voice the moods and impressions of which the book is made.

Let us read the revelation of this book not primarily to condemn or
praise, or even to estimate and define, but to appreciate. If it be true
that no one ever looked into the Kingdom of Heaven except through the
eyes of a little child, if it be true that the eyes of every unspoiled
child are such a window, take the vision and be thankful. If, perchance,
this window should open toward strange abysses that reach vaguely away,
or upon dark meadows that lie ghost-like in the mingled light, if out
of the abyss rises, undefined, the vast, dim shape of the mystery, and
wakens in us the haunting memories of dead yesterdays and forgotten
years, if we seem carried past the day into the gray vastness that is
beyond the sunset and before the dawn, let us recognize that the mystery
or mysteries, the annunciation of the Infinite is a little child.

EDWARD HOWARD GRIGGS.

TO HER MAJESTY ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.

December, 188-

I am almost too old to undertake this book, for a sort of night is
falling about me; where shall I find the words vital and young enough
for the task?

To-morrow, at sea, I will commence it; at least I will endeavor to put
into it all that was best of myself at a time when as yet there was
nothing very bad.

So that romantic love may find no place in it, except in the illusory
form of a vision, I will end it at an early age.

And to the sovereign lady whose suggestion it was that I write it, I
offer it as a humble token of my respect and admiration.

PIERRE LOTI.

THE STORY OF A CHILD.

CHAPTER I.

It is with some degree of awe that I touch upon the enigma of my
impressions at the commencement of my life. I am almost doubtful whether
they had reality within my own experience, or whether they are not,
rather, recollections mysteriously transmitted--I feel an almost sacred
hesitation when I would fath