"I feel a kind of remorse when I pray for my poor mother's soul; it is because I did not love her enough. I am very sure that I always did my best to please her, that I never said any but kind words to her, and that I served her in all ways as I serve you; but I must confess something, Madame Blanchet, which troubles me, and for which, in secret, I often ask God's forgiveness. Ever since the day my poor mother wanted to send me back to the asylum, and you took my part, and prevented her doing so, my love for her, against my will, grew less. I was not angry with her; I did not allow myself even to think that she was wrong in trying to rid herself of me. It was her right to do so; I stood in her way; she was afraid of your mother-in-law, and after all she did it very reluctantly; for I could see that she loved me greatly. In some way or other, the idea keeps recurring to my mind, and I cannot drive it away. From the moment you said to me those words which I shall never forget, I loved you more than her, and in spite of all I could do, I thought of you more often than of her. She is dead now, and I did not die of grief as I should if you died!"
"What were the words I said, my poor child, that made you love me so much? I do not remember them."
"You do not remember them?" said the waif, sitting down at the feet of Madeleine, who was turning her wheel as she listened. "When you gave the crowns to my mother, you said: 'There, I buy that child of you; he is mine!' And then you kissed me and said: 'Now you are no longer a waif; you have a mother who will love you as if you were her own!' Did not you say so, Madame Blanchet?"
"If I did, I said what I meant, and am still of the same mind. Do you think I have failed to keep my word?"
"Oh no! only—"
"Only what?"
"No. I cannot tell you, for it is wrong to complain and be thankless and ungrateful."
"I know that you cannot be ungrateful, and I want you to say what you have on your mind. Come, in what respect don't I treat you like my own child? I order you to tell me, as I should order Jeannie."
"Well, it is—it is that you kiss Jeannie very often, and have never kissed me since the day we were just speaking of. Yet I am careful to keep my face and hands very clean, because I know that you do not like dirty children, and are always running after Jeannie to wash and comb him. But this does not make you kiss me any more, and my mother Zabelle did not kiss me either. I see that other mothers caress their children, and so I know that I am always a waif, and that you cannot forget it."
"Come and kiss me, François," said the miller's wife, making the child sit on her knees and kissing him with much feeling. "It is true that I did wrong never to think of it, and you deserved better of me. You see now that I kiss you with all my heart, and you are very sure that you are not a waif, are not you?"