Certainly a loved and only daughter, remaining unmarried through her affection for her mother, piously watched over the last years of the widow. It was she, I was sure, who had so tenderly placed her dear mother; she who had put the ottoman under her feet, she who had put near her the inlaid table, and arranged on it the waiter and two cups. I expected already to see her coming in carrying the evening coffee--the sweet, calm girl, who should be dressed in mourning like the widow, and resemble her very much. Absorbed by the contemplation of a scene so sympathetic, and by the pleasure of imagining that humble poem, I remained standing some steps from the open window, sure of not being noticed in the dusky street, when I saw a door open and there appeared--oh, how far he was from my thoughts at that moment--my friend Meurtrier himself, the formidable hero of tilts on the river and frays in unknown places. A sudden doubt crossed me. I felt that I was on the point of discovering a mystery. It was indeed he. His terrible hairy hand held a tiny silver coffee-pot, and he was followed by a poodle which greatly embarrassed his steps--a valiant and classic poodle, the poodle of blind clarionet-players, a poor beggar's poodle, a poodle clipped like a lion, with hairy ruffles on his four paws, and a white mustache like a general of the Gymnase. "Mamma," said the giant, in a tone of ineffable tenderness, "here is your coffee. I am sure that you will find it nice to-night. The water was boiling well, and I poured it on drop by drop." "Thank you," said the old lady, rolling her easy-chair to the table with an air; "thank you, my little Achille. Your dear father said many a time that there was not my equal at making coffee--he was so kind and indulgent, the dear, good man--but I begin to believe that you are even better than I." At that moment, and while Meurtrier was pouring out the coffee with all the delicacy of a young girl, the poodle, excited no doubt by the uncovered sugar, placed his forepaws on the lap of his mistress. "Down, Medor," she cried, with a benevolent indignation. "Did any one ever see such a troublesome animal? Look here, sir! you know very well that your master never fails to give you the last of his cup. By-the-way," added the widow, addressing her son, "you have taken the poor fellow out, have you not?" [Illustration] "Certainly, mamma," he replied, in a tone that was almost infantile. "I have just been to the creamery for your morning milk, and I put the leash and collar on Medor and took him with me." "And he has attended to all his little wants?" "Don't be disturbed. He doesn't want anything." Reassured on this point, important to canine hygiene, the good dame drank her coffee, between her son and her dog, who each regarded her with an inexpressible tenderness.