t the drawn muslin curtain; her daughter's large armchair was
a little farther away. She announced the approach of their daily
passers-by. It was a diversion, a subject of conversation; and the long
hours of toil seemed shorter, marked off by the regular appearance
of people who were as busy as they. There were two little sisters, a
gentleman in a gray overcoat, a child who was taken to school and taken
home again, and an old government clerk with a wooden leg, whose step on
the sidewalk had a sinister sound.

They hardly ever saw him; he passed after dark, but they heard him, and
the sound always struck the little cripple's ears like a harsh echo
of her own mournful thoughts. All these street friends unconsciously
occupied a large place in the lives of the two women. If it rained, they
would say:

"They will get wet. I wonder whether the child got home before the
shower." And when the season changed, when the March sun inundated the
sidewalks or the December snow covered them with its white mantle and
its patches of black mud, the appearance of a new garment on one of
their friends caused the two recluses to say to themselves, "It is
summer," or, "winter has come."

Now, on a certain evening in May, one of those soft, luminous evenings
when life flows forth from the houses into the street through the open
windows, Desiree and her mother were busily at work with needles and
fingers, exhausting the daylight to its last ray, before lighting the
lamp. They could hear the shouts of children playing in the yards, the
muffled notes of pianos, and the voice of a street peddler, drawing his
half-empty wagon. One could smell the springtime in the air, a vague
odor of hyacinth and lilac.

Mamma Delobelle had laid aside her work, and, before closing the window,
leaned upon the sill listening to all these noises of a great toiling
city, taking delight in walking through the streets when its day's work
was ended. From time to time she spoke to her daughter, without turning
her head.

"Ah! there's Monsieur Sigismond. How early he leaves the factory
to-night! It may be because the days are lengthening so fast, but I
don't think it can be seven o'clock. Who can that man be with the old
cashier?--What a funny thing!--One would say--Why, yes!--One would say
it was Monsieur Frantz. But that isn't possible. Monsieur Frantz is a
long way from here at this moment; and then he had no beard. That man
looks like him all the same! Just loo