own."

"Baby, go and kiss your aunt."

"And then we shall go, mamma?"

"You are very rude, my dear."

"Let him speak out; at any rate, he is frank. But I see that your husband
is getting impatient, you have other . . . errands to fulfil; I will not
keep you. Besides, I am going to church to pray for those who do not pray
for themselves."

From twelve duty calls, subtract one duty call, and eleven remain. Hum!
"Coachman, Rue St. Louis au Marais."

"Papa, has Aunt Ursula needles in her chin?"

Let us pass over the eleven duty calls, they are no more agreeable to
write of than to make.

Toward seven o'clock, heaven be praised, the horses stop before my
father's, where dinner awaits us. Baby claps his hands, and smiles at old
Jeannette, who, at the sound of the wheels, has rushed to the door. "Here
they are," she exclaims, and she carries off Baby to the kitchen, where
my mother, with her sleeves turned up, is giving the finishing touch to
her traditional plum cake.

My father, on his way to the cellar, lantern in hand, and escorted by his
old servant, Jean, who is carrying the basket, halts. "Why, children, how
late you are! Come to my arms, my dears; this is the day on which one
kisses in good earnest. Jean, hold my lantern a minute." And as my old
father clasps me to his breast, his hand seeks out mine and grasps it,
with a long clasp. Baby, who glides in between our legs, pulls our
coat-tails and holds up his little mouth for a kiss too.

"But I am keeping you here in the anteroom and you are frozen; go into
the drawing-room, there are a good fire and good friends there."

They have heard us, the door opens, and a number of arms are held out to
us. Amid handshakings, embracings, good wishes, and kisses, boxes are
opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes
deafening, and good humor tumultuous. Baby standing amid his presents
resembles a drunken man surrounded by a treasure, and from time to time
gives a cry of joy on discovering some fresh toy.

"The little man's fable," exclaims my father, swinging his lantern which
he has taken again from Jean.

A deep silence ensues, and the poor child, whose debut in the
elocutionary art it is, suddenly loses countenance. He casts down his
eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who, stooping
down, whispers, "Come, darling, 'A lamb was quenching'; you know the wolf
and the lamb."

"Yes, mamma, I know the little lamb that