How often that window has been my beacon on dark nights! I used to watch for it from the train--a landmark in a land of milk and honey--the kindliest light that ever led me yet on earth. I sit me down in my own particular chimney-corner, in my own cane-bottomed chair by the fender, and stare at the blaze with my friend the mastiff. An old war-battered tomcat Barty was fond of jumps up and makes friends too. There goes my funny little French remembrance, trying to fly up the chimney like a burnt love-letter.... Barty's eldest daughter (Roberta), a stately, tall Hebe in black, brings me a very sizable cup of tea, just as I like it. A well-grown little son of hers, a very Ganymede, beau comme le jour, brings me a cigarette, and insists on lighting it for me himself. I like that too. Another daughter of Barty's, "la rossignolle," as we call her--though there is no such word that I know of--goes to the piano and sings little French songs of forty, fifty years ago--songs that she has learnt from her dear papa. Heavens! what a voice! and how like his, but for the difference of sex and her long and careful training (which he never had); and the accent, how perfect! Then suddenly: "À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca ... Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise! À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca ... Nous étions, nous étions bien là! Mais de vous en souvenir Prendrez-vous la peine? Mais de vous en souvenir, Et d'y revenir? À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca ... Vivre et mourir là!" So sings Mrs. Trevor (Mary Josselin that was) in the richest, sweetest voice I know. And behold! at last I have caught my little French remembrance, just as the lamps are being lit--and I transfix it with my pen and write it down.... And then with a sigh I scratch it all out again, sunny and funny as it is. For it's all about a comical adventure I had with Palaiseau, the sniffer at the fête de St.-Cloud--all about a tame magpie, a gendarme, a blanchisseuse, and a volume of de Musset's poems, and doesn't concern Barty in the least; for it so happened that Barty wasn't there! * * * * * Thus, in the summer of 1851, Barty Josselin and I bade adieu forever to our happy school life--and for a few years to our beloved Paris--and for many years to our close intimacy of every hour in the day. I remember spending two or three afternoons with him at the great exhibition in Hyde Park just before he went on a visit to his grandfather, Lord Whitby, in Yorkshire--and happy afternoons they were! and we made the most of them. We saw all there was to be seen there, I think; and found ourselves always drifting back to the "Amazon" and the "Greek Slave," for both of which Barty's admiration was boundless.