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 jointed¹ 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, gilt² 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 consecrated³ to it from that day forth—the box was a new one made of pine, and it had a penetrating⁴, resinous⁵ odor.  
After our dinner, at dusk, we were taken out for a walk. But, to my surprise and sorrow, we found it chilly⁶ and the sky was overcast⁷, 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 pedestrians⁸, we went towards the Marine⁹ Garden, a much prettier and more suitable walk, but one usually deserted¹⁰ after sunset.
 
We went down the long straight street without meeting any one; as we drew near the “Chapel¹¹ of the Orphans” we heard those within chanting a psalm¹². 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. After making a circuit of the lonely quarter, chanting meanwhile a melancholy¹³ hymn¹⁴, they noiselessly re-entered the chapel. There was no one in the street to see them save ourselves, and the thought came to me that neither was there any one in the gray heavens above to see them; the overcast sky seemed as lonely as the solitary¹⁵ street. That little band of orphaned¹⁶ children intensified¹⁷ my feeling of sorrow and added to the disenchantment of the May night, and I had a consciousness of the vanity of prayer, of the emptiness of all things.
 
In the Marine Garden my sadness increased. It was extremely cold, and we shivered in our light spring wraps. There was not a single promenader to be seen. The large chestnut¹⁸ trees all abloom and the foliage¹⁹, in the glory of its tender hue

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