gets the better of me, and a tear steals into my eye. There are
two in those of my wife, and Baby, losing his head, sobs as he kisses my
hand.

It is absurd.

Absurd, I don't know; but delightful, I can answer for it.

Does not grief, after all, call forth enough tears for us to forgive joy
the solitary one she perchance causes us to shed!

Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded, and
when the heart is empty the way seems very long.

It is so pleasant to feel one's self loved, to hear beside one the
cadenced steps of one's fellow-travellers, and to say, "They are here,
our three hearts beat in unison." So pleasant once a year, when the great
clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the path, with
hands locked together, and eyes fixed on the unknown dusty road losing
itself in the horizon, and to say, while embracing one another, "We still
love one another, my dear children; you rely on me, and I rely on you.
Let us have confidence, and walk steadfastly."

This is how I explain that one may weep a little while examining a new
fur tippet and opening a Noah's ark.

But breakfast time draws near. I have cut myself twice while shaving; I
have stepped on my son's wild beasts in turning round, and I have the
prospect of a dozen duty calls, as my wife terms them, before me; yet I
am delighted.

We sit down to the breakfast table, which has a more than usually festive
aspect. A faint aroma of truffles perfumes the air, every one is smiling,
and through the glass I see, startling sight! the doorkeeper, with his
own hands, wiping the handrail of the staircase. It is a glorious day.

Baby has ranged his elephants, lions, and giraffes round his plate, and
his mother, under pretext of a draught, breakfasts in her tippet.

"Have you ordered the carriage, dear, for our visits?" I ask.

"That cushion for Aunt Ursula will take up such a deal of room. It might
be put beside the coachman."

"Poor aunt."

"Papa, don't let us go to Aunt Ursula," said Baby; "she pricks so when
she kisses you."

"Naughty boy . . . . Think of all we have to get into the carriage.
Leon's rocking-horse, Louise's muff, your father's slippers, Ernestine's
quilt, the bonbons, the work-box. I declare, aunt's cushion must go under
the coachman's feet."

"Papa, why doesn't the giraffe eat cutlets?"

"I really don't know, dear."

"Neither do I, papa."

An hour later we are ascending the staircase leading to