And with her head gently nodding, and her face still tear-stained, she
looks afar, and sees the streets attentive to my eloquence!

* * * * * *

Hardly has this strange imagining in the bosom of our kitchen passed
away when Mame adds, with her eyes on mine, "My lad, mind you, never
look higher than yourself. You are already something of a home-bird;
you have already serious and elderly habits. That's good. Never try
to be different from others."

"No danger of that, Mame."

No, there is no danger of that. I should like to remain as I am.
Something holds me to the surroundings of my infancy and childhood, and
I should like them to be eternal. No doubt I hope for much from life.
I hope, I have hopes, as every one has. I do not even know all that I
hope for, but I should not like too great changes. In my heart I
should not like anything which changed the position of the stove, of
the tap, of the chestnut wardrobe, nor the form of my evening rest,
which faithfully returns.

* * * * * *

The fire alight, my aunt warms up the stew, stirring it with the wooden
spoon. Sometimes there spurts from the stove a mournful flame, which
seems to illumine her with tatters of light.

I get up to look at the stew. The thick brown gravy is purring. I can