Mother Denis points them out to me.
“Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!” said she, putting her hand on the head of the little glutton.
“He has had no breakfast,” puts in one of the others by way of excuse.
“Poor little thing,” said the milkwoman; “he is left alone in the streets of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!”
“And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?” I replied, gently.
“What I do is little enough,” said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk; “but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for once they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will make up for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountains to me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again.”
Here her eyes filled with tears.
“So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?” resumed I.
“Yes! yes!” said she, “and by their happiness, too! The laughter of these little ones, sir, is like a bird’s song; it makes you gay, and gives you heart to live.”
As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added some apples and a handful of nuts to them.