THAT period of my life is quite luminous in my memory: only later it seems as if the sun must have been a little dimmed. I walked out with grandfather morning and evening, I came into closer relations with nature, and I had a new suit of clothes. It was the first. Up to that time I had worn those of my elder brothers cut down to fit me. A seamstress used to come to the house to alter and mend the garments destined for me. She was as homely as heart could wish, and had been recommended by Mlle Tapinois, who flattered herself that she had formed her in her work-rooms. I had grown rapidly during my illness. What was then my surprise when I was informed that a tailor, a real tailor, was coming to take my measures, mine, not Bernard’s nor Stephen’s! The tailor’s name was Plumeau. Tall and thin as a lath, he floated in an immense frock coat. Did he propose, like God when he created man, to make me in his own image and after his likeness? He fabricated for me a full suit of olive green which emphasised my leanness, to which end he had neglected nothing. The coat, rivalling an overcoat, reached to my knees: the cloth was of a solidity calculated to defy time. It was very evident that I had a suit that would last till I took my baccalaureate. I somehow had the impression that it favoured me too much, and my vanity rebelled. The whole family had been summoned to see me in my new suit, and ratify its acceptance. I was constrained to turn round and round like a horse in the market, and my rebellious face became almost as long as my coat. “It will do,” father finally pronounced. It would do? Yes, in two or three years, when I had grown a great deal more. Mother was cautious about speaking too approvingly. My brothers kept silence, but I perceived that they were smothering their laughter, a self-denial which Louise by no means exercised. Aunt Deen saved the situation which was becoming painful. She arrived late upon the scene, for she had been putting to rights in the tower chamber when notified of the arrival of M. Plumeau. We heard her on the stairs before we saw her. Hope at once revived. Her coming was like the arrival of fresh troops upon the field of battle--she decided the fortunes of the day. Hardly had she perceived me, lost in my new suit, when she cried: “It’s admirable, Francis; I won’t keep it from you; never have I seen any one so becomingly dressed.” Every one drew a long breath and I was comforted; so greatly, indeed, that, unwilling to part with my fine garments, I put them on for our next walk. Grandfather did not notice. But at the gate Aunt Deen overtook us all out of breath. “Naughty boy!” she exclaimed, “putting on your best clothes for a walk!” She almost undressed me with her own hands in the street; I must needs go back to the house under her escort, to exchange my costume for less distinguished raiment, and the walk that day was spoiled. But those that came afterward made it up to me.