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After a few words spoken at random on the memories of bygone years which time had not entirely defaced, the minister told me to go to the Abbe de la Ville and use his name. This abbe, the chief permanent official of the foreign office, was a man of cold temperament, a profound diplomatist, and the soul of the department, and high in favour with his excellency the minister.

Well, I just ran out here and began to look and look at my flowers if I ever do go blind I'm going to have lots of memories of lovely things I've seen." Phœbe drew Mother Bab's face to her and kissed it. "You just mustn't get blind! It would be too dreadful. There are many clever specialists in the city these days. Surely, there is some doctor who can help you."

Versailles itself, the palace and the town, were still sad. The rain still fell in torrents. THE VERSAILLES OF TO-DAY. Roses, begonias, geraniums, the last of a long hot summer, still shed their fragrant memories over the park of Versailles.

But they could not cover up the memories of what had happened to bush, rock, and tree. "If such are their small weapons," Buck observed that evening, "then what kind of things did they have to balance our heavy armament? Perhaps they were able to burn up worlds!" "That may be what happened elsewhere," Travis replied. "We do not know what put an end to their empire.

For Luttrell was there in the cabin in front of him, but sunk in so deep a contemplation of memories and prospects that the cabin might just as well have been empty. Sir Charles Hardiman touched him on the shoulder. "Wake up, old man!" "That's what I am doing waking up," said Luttrell, turning without any start.

I thought Mr. Glascock did it very well." "To tell you the truth, my dear, I did not observe him." "I did, narrowly. He hadn't tied his cravat at all nicely." "How you could think of his cravat, Nora, with such memories as you must have, and such regrets, I cannot understand." "Mamma, my memories of Mr. Glascock are pleasant memories, and as for regrets, I have not one.

"Allah is great. Is it not as I said; you have been guided hither?" "But tell me of the white man," said Compton, impatiently. "We two, the wise woman and I, talked of the white man; and she knows all. See, I am old, and the past is like a mist, through which old memories pass quickly like shadows; but the wise woman can blow the mist away. Find her, and you will learn all of my white man."

His eye wandered to the notice on his wall. "I've been busy all right, but it doesn't make me happy not jus' now," he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight. That certainly must be repeated some time. Buckets of water and scrubbing-brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before. William's mother looked down at his dripping form.

Who has not heard music, often entirely new compositions, which somehow awakened memories of similar strains, scenes, places, faces, voices, lands, associations, and events, sounding dimly on the strings of memory as the breezes of the harmony floats over them? Who has not gazed at some old painting, or piece of statuary, with the sense of having seen it all before?

The word "Pickwick" contains the common terminal "wick," as in "Warwick," and which means a village or hamlet of some kind. Pickwick, however, has long since disappeared from the face of the map. Probably, after the year 1837, folk did not relish dating their letters from a spot of such humorous memories.