hoping for their repetition on the night to follow.

[Illustration]

I remained a week in Paris, loafing about by day among old haunts of my
childhood--a melancholy pleasure--and at night trying to "dream true" as
my dream duchess had called it. Only once did I succeed.

I had gone to bed thinking most persistently of the "Mare d'Auteuil,"
and it seemed to me that as soon as I was fairly asleep I woke up there,
and knew directly that I had come into a "true dream" again, by the
reality and the bliss. It was transcendent _life_ once more--a very
ecstasy of remembrance made actual, and _such_ an exquisite surprise!

There was M. le Major, in his green frock-coat, on his knees near a
little hawthorn-tree by the brink, among the water-logged roots of which
there dwelt a cunning old dytiscus as big as the bowl of a
table-spoon--a prize we had often tried to catch in vain.

M. le Major had a net in his hand, and was watching the water intently;
the perspiration was trickling down his nose; and around him, in silent
expectation and suspense, were grouped Gogo and Mimsey and my three
cousins, and a good-humored freckled Irish boy I had quite forgotten,
and I suddenly remembered that his name was Johnstone, that he was very
combative, and that he lived in the Rue Basse (now Rue Raynouard).

On the other side of the pond my mother was keeping Medor from the
water, for fear of his spoiling the sport, and on the bench by the
willow sat Madame Seraskier--lovely Madame Seraskier--deeply
interested. I sat down by her side and gazed at her with a joy there is