essel lay off the little port of Benevent, in the south of
France. The time was high noon; the month, August. The day was bright.
The sunbeams danced over the white spray and green waves. A boat put
off for the shore. I, Pierre Crepin, sat in the stern and held the
rudder-lines. My heart was full of joy. I had been born in Benevent;
my friends were there--if they were alive. My mother, with good Aunt
Lisette, in the little cottage by the hill-side. My old companions
drinking white wine at "The Three Magpies." All the old faces I knew--
had known from childhood--loved better than anything else in the world.
I could throw a stone to where they sat. I could almost hear them talk.
"Pull, my comrades, pull!" I grow impatient; I, the lost found; I, the
dead returned to life; I, Pierre Crepin, back in Benevent. Who will
believe it? For some time I must seem the ghost of myself. My old
companions will put down their glasses and stare. Then they will till
them to the brim and drink the health of Pierre Crepin, till the
roof-tree of "The Three Magpies" echoes with "Pierre--Pierre Crepin,
welcome back!" And my mother, she will know the footsteps of her son on
the pebbles. She will rush out to fold me to her heart. And good Aunt
Lisette! She is feeble--it will be almost too much for her. And--

The boat's keel grates harshly on the shingle. "Steady!" say the
seamen. I make my adieux tenderly, for they have been too kind to me.
I wring their hands; I leap ashore. They go back to their ship. I turn
my steps first to the little whitewashed cottage on the hill-side.

Is it necessary for me to tell how my mother embraces me. Poor Aunt
Lisette! She knows I am back; but she is not here to welcome me. She
is at rest. At last I have told all. It is night now, and I am free to
go to the kitchen of "The Three Magpies."

There it is. "Mon Dieu!" "Impossible; it is his ghost!" I soon
convince them that it is, indeed, I myself. The news spreads over the
market place. "Pierre Crepin is come back to Benevent. After all, he
is not drowned; he is alive and well." The kitchen of "The Three
Magpies" will not hold the crowd. Antoine, the drawer, cannot pull the
corks fast enough. My eyes fill with tears. The brave fellows are too
good to me. I must tell them my story. Pouches are drawn out; pipes
and cigars are lighted; glasses are tilled for the twentieth time. I
begin my yarn.

You see me, my good friends,