"How all the better?" the woman continued. "Silence!" the father replied. "I suppress the liberty of the press." Then, tearing the chemise which he wore, he made a bandage, with which he quickly wrapped up the girl's bleeding hand; this done, his eye settled on the torn shirt with satisfaction. "And the shirt too!" he said; "all this looks well." An icy blast blew through the pane and entered the room. The external fog penetrated it, and dilated like a white wadding pulled open by invisible fingers. The snow could be seen falling through the broken pane, and the cold promised by the Candlemas sun had really arrived. The father took a look around him, as if to make sure that he had forgotten nothing, then he fetched an old shovel and strewed the ashes over the wet logs so as to conceal them entirely. Then getting up and leaning against the chimney-piece, he said,-- "Now we can receive the philanthropist." CHAPTER VIII. A SUNBEAM IN THE GARRET. The elder girl walked up to her father and laid her hand in his. "Just feel how cold I am!" she said. "Stuff!" the father answered; "I am much colder than that." The mother cried impetuously,-- "You always have everything more than others, even evil." "Off with you!" said the man. The mother, looked at by him in a certain way, held her tongue, and there was a momentary silence in the den. The elder girl was carelessly removing the mud from the edge of her cloak, and her younger sister continued to sob. The mother had taken her head between her hands, and covered it with kisses, while whispering,-- "Pray do not go on so, my treasure; it will be nothing, so don't cry, or you will vex your father." "No," the father cried, "on the contrary, sob away, for that does good." Then he turned to the elder girl,-- "Why, he is not coming! Suppose he were not to come! I should have broken my pane, put out my fire, unseated my chair, and torn my shirt all for nothing." "And hurt the little one," the mother murmured.