"And the day when the good Sainte-Catherine brings playthings to the babies, mama?"
"Sometimes—yes."
"Then why doesn't she bring playthings to our house, mama?"
"We live too far away, perhaps; and then—we are too poor."
"She brings them only to rich babies, then, mama? But why, mama, why, I say? I should love to see playthings!"
"Eh, bien! some day you may, if you are very good—to-night, perhaps, if you are wise and go to sleep soon."
"I will, then, mama, I will right away, so she can bring them to-morrow."
The little voice ceased; there was a long silence; then a long breath, even and light!
The child slept at last—the mother also.
La Bretonne, only, did not sleep! An emotion, at once poignant and tender, tore at her heart, and she thought more than ever of that other little one, whom they said she had killed.... This lasted till dawn.