"But the writing can wait, Monsieur Maurice," I urged one morning, "and you
can't always be reading the same old books over and over again!"

"Some books never grow old, little Gretchen," he replied. "This, for
instance, is quite new; and yet it was written by one Horatius Flaccus
somewhere about eighteen hundred years ago."

"But the sun is really shining this morning, Monsieur Maurice!"

"_Comment_!" he said, smiling. "Do you think to persuade me that
yonder is the sun--the great, golden, glorious, bountiful sun? No, no, my
child! Where I come from, we have the only true sun, and believe in no
other!"

"But you come from France, don't you, Monsieur Maurice?" I asked quickly.

"From the South of France, petite--from the France of palms, and
orange-groves, and olives; where the myrtle flowers at Christmas, and the
roses bloom all the year round!"

"But that must be where Paradise was, Monsieur Maurice!" I exclaimed.

"Ay; it was Paradise once--for me," he said, with a sigh.

Thus, after a moment's pause, he went on:--

"The house in which I was born stands on a low cliff above the sea. It is
an old, old house, with all kinds of quaint little turrets, and gable ends,
and picturesque nooks and corners about it--such as one sees in most French
Chateaux of that period; and it lies back somewhat, with a great rambling