We cultivated our little gardens no more: our flowers were neglected.

We no longer scratched away the mould, and broke out into exclamations of delight, on discovering that the grain we had sown began to shoot.

We were disgusted with our situation; our preceptors were weary of us.

In a word, my uncle wrote for our return, and we left Mr.
and Miss Lambercier without feeling any regret at the separation.
Near thirty years passed away from my leaving Bossey, without once recalling the place to my mind with any degree of satisfaction; but after having passed the prime of life, as I decline into old age (while more recent occurrences are wearing out apace) I feel these remembrances revive and imprint themselves on my heart, with a force and charm that every day acquires fresh strength; as if, feeling life fleet from me, I endeavored to catch it again by its commencement.

The most trifling incident of those happy days delight me, for no other reason than being of those days.