child, with heavy eyelids, let her little fair-haired head fall on her
shoulders. Madame Desvarennes took her in her arms and undressed her
quietly, kissing her bare and dimpled arms. It was exquisite enjoyment
which stirred her heart deliciously. She saw the cradle, and devoured
the child with her eyes. She knew that the picture was a myth. But what
did it matter to her? She was happy. Michel's voice broke on her
reverie.

"Wife," said he, "this is Christmas Eve; and as there are only us two,
suppose you put your slipper on the hearth."

Madame Desvarennes rose. Her eyes vaguely turned toward the hearth on
which the fire was dying, and beside the upright of the large sculptured
mantelpiece she beheld for a moment a tiny shoe, belonging to the child
which she loved to see in her dreams. Then the vision vanished, and
there was nothing left but the lonely hearth. A sharp pain tore her
swollen heart; a sob rose to her lips, and, slowly, two tears rolled down
her cheeks. Michel, quite pale, looked at her in silence; he held out
his hand to her, and said, in a trembling voice:

"You were thinking about it, eh?"

Madame Desvarennes bowed her head, twice, silently, and without adding
another word, the pair fell into each other's arms and wept.

From that day they hid nothing from each other, and shared their troubles
and regrets in common. The mistress unburdened her heart by making a
full confession, and Michel, for the first time in his life, learned the
depth of soul of his companion to its inmost recesses. This woman, so
energetic, so obstinate, was, as it were, broken down. The springs of