“Oh, Monsieur Jacques! it is because I am so happy! How kind the good God is! How he makes us think light of trouble that seemed so great! Only this morning I was so sad, weeping because she must go out, and no breakfast; not a morsel of bread; not a drop of milk—in short, nothing. It was the third morning I had seen this, and it made my heart sick with trouble. But now that is so little, I smile at it. I have her here alive—she breathes—she opens her eyes! Oh, mamma! you have been so close to death, I thought you had gone and was about to die myself. Only for that tiny flutter in your wrist I could not have helped it. Ah! you know all about it. You look into my eyes, and say in your heart, ‘How this poor child loves me. She is worth living for.’” Here Monsieur Jacques put Marguerite on one side with his hand, in which was a lump of brown bread. In the other he held a cup of water. “Let her eat this, little one; then she will be strong, and tell us how all this happened.” Marguerite reached out her hand for the bread. “Oh, monsieur! let me give it to her. I so longed to see her eat it from my hand; but then it is yours—I have no right.” Jacques was holding the woman’s head on his arm. She was conscious,—her eyes were wide open,—but quiet from perfect exhaustion. He surrendered the bread into those outstretched hands with a smile that illuminated his grim free into something better than beauty ever was to a man. Marguerite held the water to her mother’s lips, and then placed a morsel of bread between them. This was feebly swallowed. At that moment, made aware that food was near, the woman started up, snatched at the bread, and devoured it ravenously. Marguerite began to cry again at this; then she laughed through her tears, and turned to Jacques, who looked on with two great tears rolling down his cheeks. Seizing his two hands, she fell to kissing them rapturously. “It is you that I must thank. Where did you get it? bread, and such bread, all of flour; the last we had was half fern, that made our throats dry. She would not eat, but gave it all to me, saying that she had plenty put away, but liked to eat it by herself. That was wrong, very wrong; it cheated me into eating so much. Do you know, Monsieur Jacques, I fear—nay, I feel sure that she has eaten nothing. Oh! mamma, mamma! if I forgive you, it will be after you have eaten every crumb of monsieur’s bread.” The woman, who had been devouring the bread like a hungry wolf, now dropped the last crust from her hands. “Forgive me! I had forgotten you, little one; but the day was so long, and I walked fast both ways.” Marguerite replaced the fragment of bread in her mother’s hands. “Eat it all!” she said. “I have had enough, haven’t I, Monsieur Jacques?” “Plenty,” answered the man. “Never fear; there is yet another loaf—the baker is my friend. Besides, I have made a discovery.”