The outburst of tenderness awakened a confused instinct of motherhood buried deep in the soul of that girl who had once been condemned for having stifled her new-born babe. _La Bretonne_ reflected that “if things had not gone badly” with her, her own child would have been just as old as this little girl. At that thought, and at the sound of the childish voice, she shuddered in her inmost soul; something tender and loving was born in that embittered heart, and she felt an overwhelming need for tears. “Come, my pet,” said _la Fleuriotte_, “hurry off to sleep. If you are good, I’ll take you to-morrow to the fête of Saint Catherine.” “Saint Catherine’s--that’s the fête for little girls, isn’t it, Mamma?” “Yes, my own.” “Is it true, then, that on this day Saint Catherine gives playthings to the children?” “Yes--sometimes.” “Why doesn’t she ever bring anything to our house?” “We live too far away; and, besides, we are too poor.” “Then, she brings them only to rich children! Why? I--I’d love to have some playthings.” “Ah, well! Some day--if you are quite good--if you go to sleep nicely--perhaps she will bring you some.” “All right--I’m going to sleep--so that she’ll bring me some to-morrow.” Silence. Then regular and gentle breathing. The child had fallen asleep, and the mother too. Only _la Bretonne_ did not sleep. An emotion both poignant and tender wrung her heart, and she thought more fixedly than ever of that little one whom long ago she had stifled. This lasted until the first gleams of dawn. At early daylight _la Fleuriotte_ and her child still slept. _La Bretonne_ furtively glided out of the house, and, walking hastily in the direction of Auberive, did not pause until she reached the first houses. Once there, she again passed slowly up the single street, scanning the signs of the shops. At last one of these seemed to fix her attention. She rapped upon the window-shutter, and by and by it was opened. It was a dry-goods shop, but they also had some children’s playthings--poor shopworn toys--paper dolls, a Noah’s ark, a sheep-fold. To the great amazement of the shopkeeper, _la Bretonne_ bought them all, paid, and went out. She was again on the road to _la Fleuriotte’s_ hovel when a hand was laid heavily on her shoulder. Tremblingly she turned and found herself facing a corporal of _gensdarmes_. The unhappy woman had forgotten that convicts were not permitted after their release to remain in the neighborhood of the prison! “Instead of loafing here, you should be already at Langres,” said the corporal severely. “Go along--on your way!” She sought to explain--her pains were lost! In the twinkling of an eye a cart was requisitioned, she was put in under the escort of a _gendarme_, and the driver whipped up his horse. The cart rumbled joltingly over the frozen road. Poor _la Bretonne_ heart-brokenly clutched the package of playthings in her chilled fingers.