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 her
will seemed worn out. She felt despondencies and wearinesses until then
unknown. Work tired her. She did not venture down to the offices; she
talked of giving up business, which was a bad sign. She longed for
country air. Were they not rich enough? With their simple tastes so much
money was unnecessary. In fact, they had no wants. They would go to some