cap whirling down the spiral of the stairway like a feather in the
wind. "Good-bye, my little boy!" I should have liked so much to
question him. But what, after all, could I have asked? It is not
polite to question children. Besides, the package itself will
probably give me more information than the messenger could.

It is a very big bundle, but not very heavy. I take it into my
library, and there untie the ribbons and unfasten the paper wrappings;
and I see--what? a log! a first-class log! a real Christmas log, but
so light that I know it must be hollow. Then I find that it is
indeed composed of two separate pieces, opening on hinges, and
fastened with hooks. I slip the hooks back, and find myself inundated
with violets! Violets! they pour over my table, over my knees, over
the carpet. They tumble into my vest, into my sleeves. I am all
perfumed with them.

"Therese! Therese! fill me some vases with water, and bring them
here, quick! Here are violets sent to us I know not from what country
nor by what hand; but it must be from a perfumed country, and by a
very gracious hand.... Do you hear me, old crow?"

I have put all the violets on my table--now completely covered by the
odorous mass. But there is still something in the log...a book--a
manuscript. It is...I cannot believe it, and yet I cannot doubt
it.... It is the "Legende Doree"!--It is the manuscript of the Clerk
Alexander! Here is the "Purification of the Virgin" and the
"Coronation of Proserpine";--here is the legend of Saint Droctoveus.
I contemplate this violet-perfumed relic. I turn the leaves of it--
between which the dark rich blossoms have slipped in here and there;
and, right opposite the legend of Saint-Cecilia, I find a card