Little Jeanne had come over to spend the day at our house; it was at the end of May during that spring in which my expectations were so great--I was twelve years old at the time.

All the afternoon we rehearsed with our tiny jointed china dolls, and painted scenery, we had in fact been busy with the "Donkey's Skin,"-- but with a revised and grand version of it, and we had about us a great confusion of paints, brushes, pieces of cardboard, gilt paper and bits of gauze.

When it came time for us to go down into the dining-room we stored our precious work away in a large box that was consecrated to it from that day forth--the box was a new one made of pine, and it had a penetrating, resinous odor.
After our dinner, at dusk, we were taken out for a walk.

But, to my surprise and sorrow, we found it chilly and the sky was overcast, and every where there was a sort of mist that recalled winter to my mind.
Instead of going beyond the town, to the places usually frequented by pedestrians, we went towards the Marine Garden, a much prettier and more suitable walk, but one usually deserted after sunset.
We went down the long straight street without meeting any one; as we drew near the "Chapel of the Orphans" we heard those within chanting a psalm.

When that was finished a procession of little girls filed out.
They were dressed in white, and they looked very cold in their spring muslins.