"Ah, dear ring," she murmured, once you were his, and you shall be his
again. You shall be on his finger, and perhaps touch his heart. Dear
ring, _ma chere petite, de ma coeur, cheri, de ma coeur. Je t'aime, je
t'aime, oui, oui._ You are his, you were mine once too. To-night, just
one night, I'll keep you--then--tomorrow, where you can save him.
"Ah, the Virgin--she smiles at me because I did right, did I not sweet
mother? She smiles--and--I grow--faint--"
The loud whistles and horns of the little ones rose on the balmy air
next morning. No one would doubt it was Christmas Day, even if doors
and windows are open wide to let in cool air.
Why, there was Christmas even in the very look of the mules on the poky
cars; there was Christmas noise in the streets, and Christmas toys and
Christmas odors, savory ones that made the nose wrinkle approvingly,
issuing from the kitchen. Michel and Mme. Laurent smiled greetings
across the street at each other, and the salutation from a passer-by
recalled the many progenied landlady to herself.
"Miss Sophie, well, poor soul, not very much Christmas for her. _Mais_,
I'll just call her in to spend the day with me. It'll cheer her a bit."
So clean and orderly within the poor little room.
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