Was this Sunday?
Was it possible that in our own little church at home--in our own little church, where we could hear the birds twittering outside in every interval of the quiet service--the old familiar faces, row beyond row, were even now upturned in reverent attention to the words of the preacher?
Prince Bedreddin, transported in his sleep to the gates of Damascus, could scarcely have opened his eyes upon a foreign city and a strange people with more incredulous amazement.
I can now scarcely remember how that day of wonders went by.

I only know that I rambled about as in a dream, and am vaguely conscious of having wandered through the gardens of the Tuilleries; of having found the Louvre open, and of losing myself among some of the upper galleries; of lying exhausted upon a bench in the Champs Elysees; of returning by quays lined with palaces and spanned by noble bridges; of pacing round and round the enchanted arcades of the Palais Royal; of wondering how and where I should find my hotel, and of deciding at last that I could go no farther without dining somehow.

Wearied and half stupefied, I ventured, at length, into one of the large _restaurants_ upon the Boulevards.

Here I found spacious rooms lighted by superb chandeliers which were again reflected in mirrors that extended from floor to ceiling.

Rows of small tables ran round the rooms, and a double line down the centre, each laid with its snowy cloth and glittering silver.
It was early when I arrived; so I passed up to the top of the room and appropriated a small table commanding a view of the great thoroughfare below.