My father’s reign had lasted three good years, perhaps, indeed, nearer four than three, when an event occurred of large importance in my child life--I fell ill. The previous year I had made my first communion, with such deep fervour that my mother had confidentially wondered to Aunt Deen: “Is he going to follow the example of Mélanie and Stephen? Will God require of us a third child? His will be done!” My adventure was almost that of _the fair child who escaped from the arms of his mother_. In the course of a walk of our “division” I had tumbled into a brook which we had been forbidden to approach, and rather than be blamed had decided to say nothing about it, though I was soaked up to the chest. Fever set in the next day or the day after. I learned later that it was a severe attack of pneumonia, which in time degenerated into pleurisy. My life was believed to be in danger, and my malady became the occasion of a change in the family arrangements which had almost altered the whole direction of my youth. In a half-slumber I heard whisperings around me, the meaning of which I at once interpreted. “Am I going to die?” I asked mother and Aunt Deen who were at my bedside. “Be quiet, naughty boy!” murmured Aunt Deen blowing her nose with a sob and deep sighs, which she doubtless supposed herself to be suppressing. Mother laid her hand upon my brow--its touch refreshed me as her gentle and persuasive voice said, “Don’t be uneasy; we are here.” I knew very well what death was. The school porter having died, a weird whim of our religious director had constrained us to defile, class by class, before the bier upon which the corpse had been laid, before the cover of the coffin was screwed down. Now this porter was a short stout man, whose mortal remains required a cubic receptacle in which he looked to us so comical and smirking that we burst into a laugh that, though it scandalised us, we found it impossible to repress. The indignant professor who was acting as marshal to this abortive pilgrimage overwhelmed us with the severest reproaches, not hesitating to add thereto in due time a sermon upon our final destiny. With no circumlocution he informed us that we were all to die, and perhaps very soon, that our parents would die, and that we should lose every one we loved. By degrees our laughter died away. A vague fear took possession of us, heightened by the monotonous repetition of the word death, continually thrown at our heads. When I went back to the house that morning, greatly moved in spite of myself by that vehement discourse, I looked at my father and mother as I had never looked at them before. They were coming and going as usual, without dreaming that I was watching them. They even laughed at one of Bernard’s remarks: I heard them laugh--a hearty laugh very like that which the unlucky porter in his box had aroused in us. Ah, that laugh! especially our father’s laugh, strong and sonorous, giving a splendid impression of health--how