She turned her head away, and said, "Out in the world!"
"Out in the world----" Whether or not it was the tone in which she pronounced the word "world," I cannot tell, but it has ever since had a strange sound for me,--a sound betokening something grand yet terrible.
Thus I made the discovery that there were nights, and that grown-up people could cry.
Soon afterwards it was winter; the nights grew longer, the days shorter, and it was never really bright in our home again,--the sunshine had vanished.
It was cold, and the trees in the gardens high up in Montmartre, where they took me to walk, grew bare and ugly.
Once, I remember, I asked my mother, "Mamma, will the trees never be green again?"
"Oh, yes, when the spring comes," she made answer.
"And then will it be bright here again?" I asked, anxiously.
To this she made no reply, but her eyes suddenly grew so sad that I climbed into her lap and kissed her upon both eyelids.
Papa was rarely with us now, and I was convinced that he had taken the sunshine away from our home.