my uncle. "He was a good man, but a heathen," my aunt often said to me,—another word which set me dreaming. My uncle was born to him when he was quite young; my father when he was old. I reflected that he must have known the marshal in person, and as my head grew heavy with sleep the talk going on about me seemed strangely mingled with what I knew of that old grandfather and his enigmatical portrait. All this, however, did not prevent me from being extremely anxious about the present which I fondly hoped my uncle would make me. So when I was told, about nine o'clock, that my nurse had come for me, it was with a beating heart that I offered my cheek to be kissed by all the old people present before I reached Uncle Gaspard, who then proceeded to draw from his pocket a little book wrapped in tissue paper. 'Open it when you get home,' he said. It was that delightful book on butterflies, with colored illustrations, which gave you and me so many excuses for torturing the poor insects by comparing them with the plates. But when I received the gift my disappointment, though I said, 'Thank you,' was bitter. Ah! how much better I should have liked some money to increase the little sum laid by in my savings' box, which was just like yours,—a stone apple painted green, which I shook daily for the pleasure of hearing the big sous rattle. My dream of the golden sabre lay buried in that
