September 15th, Eight O'clock

This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in,
and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For the
nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in
her little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but
Mother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm,
and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our
acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my
patronage has become her property.

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a
joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again
immediately to send him to me.

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:
but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as
usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?

Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that
she might think she had received her full share already. Were I to live
a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her
known to me, and which obtained for her my respect.

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had noticed
her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its
forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have always
instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but
it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in
poverty. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to