The peace of the village was broken by the noise of the little bells and the cracking of the driver's whip.

Pierre with the greatest care placed his own packets into the carriage and then we three quickly took our places.
With eyes full of sadness Pierre gazed out of the carriage window towards the sandy path that led down to the beach--and at his little friend who stood there weeping." In conclusion I will copy word for word the reflection found at the end of the faded book which was written down by my sister during that same summer.
"Then, and not for the first time, I fell into an uneasy reverie that had to do with Pierre, and I asked myself: 'What will become of the little boy?
And what will become of his little friend whose figure we could still see outlined at the now far distant end of the road.

How much despair does that little heart feel; how much anguish at being thus abandoned ?'" "What will become of that boy ?" Alas! what indeed! His whole life was to be similar to that summer of his childhood.

To know the sorrow of many farewells; to desire to take with me a thousand trifles of no appreciable value, to hunger to have about me a world of beloved souvenirs,--but especially to say good bye to wild little creatures (loved perhaps just because they were ingenuous children of nature),--these things were to make up the sum of my life.
The two or three days' journey home (broken into by a visit to our old aunts) seemed to me very nearly endless.

My impatience to see and embrace mamma kept me from sleeping.