It was long ago, it happened when I was young, for I too have been young—youth is a possession that all enjoy, the rich and poor, but which remains to no one. I had just passed my examination, having become a doctor; and well persuaded that, thanks to me, men would now cease to die, I returned to my native village to display my great talents. My village is not far from here. From my little chamber window I saw this white house, on the opposite side from that you are now gazing on. My village would certainly have no great beauty in your eyes, but to me it was superb. I was born there and loved it. Each one sees in his own particular manner the things he loves, and adapts himself to continue this love. The Almighty permits us at times to be somewhat blind, for he knows that to see every thing clearly in this lower world is not always desirable. This country then appeared smiling and animated to me, for I could live happily here: the white house alone, each day when I rose and opened my shutters, struck disagreeably on my sight—it was always closed, noiseless and sad, like a deserted thing. Never had I seen its windows open and shut, its door ajar, or the garden-gate give entrance to any one. Your uncle, who had no use for a dwelling by the side of his castle, endeavored to let it, but the price was rather high, and there was no one near wealthy enough to reside in it. Thus it continued tenantless, whilst in the village, at the slightest noise which made the dogs bark, the forms of two or three happy children might be seen at every window, putting aside the branches of the gilly-flower to look into the street. But one morning on awaking I was agreeably surprised at seeing a ladder against the walls of the white house, a painter was painting the window-shutters green; a servant was cleaning the panes of glass, and a gardener digging the garden. “So much the better,” I said, “a good roof like that sheltering no one is so much lost.”