La Mere Francois sat peeling potatoes at the door of her _loge_; she was
singing a little song about _cinq sous, sinq sous, pour monter notre
menage._ I had forgotten it, but it all came back now.

[Illustration: "CINQ SOUS, CINQ SOUS, POUR MONTER NOTRE MENAGE."]

The facetious postman, Yverdon, went in at the gate of my old garden;
the bell rang as he pushed it, and I followed him.

Under the apple-tree, which was putting forth shoots of blossom in
profusion, sat my mother and Monsieur le Major. My mother took the
letter from the postman's hand as he said, "Pour Vous? Oh yes, Madame
Pasquier, God sev ze Kveen!" and paid the postage. It was from Colonel
Ibbetson, then in Ireland, and not yet a colonel.

Medor lay snoring on the grass, and Gogo and Mimsey were looking at the
pictures in the _musee des familles._

In a garden chair lolled Dr. Seraskier, apparently asleep, with his long
porcelain pipe across his knees.

Madame Seraskier, in a yellow nankeen gown with gigot sleeves, was
cutting curl-papers out of the _Constitutionnel_.

I gazed on them all with unutterable tenderness. I was gazing on them
perhaps for the last time.

I called out to them by name.