I could not speak.
"Est-ce que monsieur est indisposé? Cette chaleur! Monsieur ne parle pas le Français, peut-être?"
When I found my tongue I explained to her that I had once lived there in a modest house overlooking the street, but which had been replaced by this much more palatial abode.
"O, oui, monsieur—on a balayé tout ça!" she replied.
"Balayé!" What an expression for me to hear!
And she explained how the changes had taken place, and how valuable the property had become. She showed me a small plot of garden, a fragment of my old garden, that still remained, and where the old apple-tree might still have been, but that it had been sawed away. I saw the stump; that did duty for a rustic table.
Presently, looking over a new wall, I saw another small garden, and in it the ruins of the old shed where I had found the toy wheelbarrow—soon to disappear, as they were building there too.
I asked after all the people I could think of, beginning with those of least interest—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker.
Some were dead; some had retired and had left their "commerce" to their children and children-in-law. Three different school-masters had kept the school since I had left. Thank Heaven, there was still the school—much altered, it is true. I had forgotten to look for it.
[Illustration: THE OLD APPLE-TREE.]