“The house in which I was born stands on a low cliff above the sea. It is
an old, old house, with all kinds of quaint little turrets, and gable ends,
and picturesque nooks and corners about it--such as one sees in most French
Châteaux of that period; and it lies back somewhat, with a great rambling
garden stretching out between it and the edge of the cliff. Three
_berceaux_ of orange-trees lead straight away from the paved terrace
on which the salon windows open, to another terrace overhanging the beach
and the sea. The cliff is overgrown from top to bottom with shrubs and wild
flowers, and a flight of steps cut in the living rock leads down to a
little cove and a strip of yellow sand a hundred feet below. Ah, petite, I
fancy I can see myself scrambling up and down those steps--a child younger
than yourself; watching the sun go down into that purple sea; counting the
sails in the offing at early morn; and building castles with that yellow
sand, just as you build castles out yonder with the snow!”