She saw the cradle, and devoured the child with her eyes.

She knew that the picture was a myth.

But what did it matter to her?
She was happy.

Michel's voice broke on her reverie.
"Wife," said he, "this is Christmas Eve; and as there are only us two, suppose you put your slipper on the hearth." Madame Desvarennes rose.

Her eyes vaguely turned toward the hearth on which the fire was dying, and beside the upright of the large sculptured mantelpiece she beheld for a moment a tiny shoe, belonging to the child which she loved to see in her dreams.