The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off my meditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that I have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the milkwoman's. Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quite young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone back to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the title they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her worthy of the name of mother. A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good her humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leaving the rest to God. At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one of the corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. They wear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold large slices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the eyes with his, and that is the reason of their mirth. Mother Denis points them out to me. "Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, putting her hand on the head of the little glutton. "He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse. "Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the streets of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!" "And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently. "What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk; "but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for once they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will make up for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountains to me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again." Here her eyes filled with tears. "So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?" resumed I. "Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter of these little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, and gives you heart to live." As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added some apples and a handful of nuts to them. "Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets against to-morrow." Then, turning to me: "To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have our Carnival." I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected. At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding the egotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self- sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kept their Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the senses or the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart. CHAPTER III WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW March 3d