The sight of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times--both of that day's issue--lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth century to me with every possible clearness.

There were flowers everywhere in this apartment--in graceful vases and in gilded osier baskets--and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets.

Yet it was winter in Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.
Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it more closely, as being the face of a friend.

While I looked at it, I heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old familiar church chant.

I listened.