When he was in his carriage, M. Godefroy had decided to reward the finder of his child handsomely--to give him a handful of that gold so easily gained. Since entering the house he had seen a side of human nature with which he was formerly unacquainted--the brave charity of the poor in their misery. The courage of the poor girl who had worked herself to death weaving wreaths to keep her child; the generosity of the poor cripple in adopting the orphan, and above all, the intelligent goodness of the little street Arab in protecting the child who was still smaller than himself--all this touched M. Godefroy deeply and set him reflecting. For the thought had occurred to him that there were other cripples who needed to be looked after as well as Pierron, and other orphans as well as Zidore. He also debated whether it would not be better to employ his time looking after them, and whether money might not be put to a better use than merely gaining money. Such was his reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping children. Finally, he turned round to study the features of the greengrocer, and was charmed by the loyal expression in the face of the man, and his clear, truthful eyes. "My friend," said M. Godefroy, "you and your adopted son have rendered me an immense service. I shall soon prove to you that I am not ungrateful. But, for to-day--I see that you are not in comfortable circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my thankfulness." But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the banker, which was diving into his coat-pocket where he kept bank-notes. "No, sir; no! Anybody else should have done just as we have done. I will not accept any recompense; but pray don't take offense. Certainly, I am not rolling in wealth, but please excuse my pride--that of an old soldier; I have the Tonquin medal--and I don't wish to eat food which I haven't earned." "As you like," said the financier; "but an old soldier like you is capable of something better. You are too good to push a handcart. I will make some arrangement for you, never fear." The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly: "Well, sir, if you really wish to do something for me--" "You'll let me care for Zidore, won't you?" cried M. Godefroy, eagerly. "That I will, with the greatest of pleasure," responded Pierron, joyfully. "I have often, thought about the child's future. He is a sharp little fellow. His teachers are delighted with him." Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came over his face which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one of distrust. The thought evidently was: "Oh, when he has once left us he'll forget us entirely." "You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take him to the carriage. He'll be better at home than here, of course. Oh, you needn't be afraid of disturbing him. He is fast asleep, and you can just pick him up. He must have his shoes on first, though."