IfellfromtheskiesonBarbizonabouttwoo’clockofaSeptemberafternoon。Itisthedeadhouroftheday；alltheworkershavegonepainting，alltheidlersstrolling，intheforestortheplain；thewindingcausewayedstreetissolitary，andtheinndeserted。Iwasthemorepleasedtofindoneofmyoldcompanionsinthedining-room；histownclothesmarkedhimforamanintheactofdeparture；andindeedhisportmanteaulaybesidehimonthefloor。
“Why，Stennis。”Icried，“you’rethelastmanIexpectedtofindhere。”
“Youwon’tfindmeherelong。”hereplied。“KingPandionheisdead；allhisfriendsarelappedinlead。Formenofourantiquity，thepooroldshopisplayedout。”
“Ihavehadplaymates，Ihavehadcompanions。”Iquotedinreturn。Wewerebothmoved，Ithink，tomeetagaininthissceneofouroldpleasurepartiessounexpectedly，aftersolonganinterval，andbothalreadysomuchaltered。
“Thatisthesentiment。”hereplied。“All，allaregone，theoldfamiliarfaces。Ihavebeenhereaweek，andtheonlylivingcreaturewhoseemedtorecollectmewasthePharaon。BartheSirons，ofcourse，andtheperennialBodmer。”