o feed ourselves, have we got to feed a child that don't
belong to us?"

"He's mine."

"He's no more yours than mine. Besides, he ain't a country boy. He's no
poor man's child. He's a delicate morsel, no arms, no legs."

"He's the prettiest boy in the village!"

"I don't say he ain't pretty. But sturdy, no! Do you think you can make
a working man out of a chit with shoulders like his? He's a city child
and there's no place for city children here."

"I tell you he's a fine boy and as intelligent and cute as a little cat,
and he's got a good heart, and he'll work for us...."

"In the meantime we've got to work for him, and I'm no good for much
now."

"If his parents claim him, what will you say?"

"His parents! Has he got any parents? They would have found him by now
if he had. It was a crazy thing for me to think that his parents would
come and claim him some day and pay us for his keep. I was a fool.
'Cause he was wrapped up in fine clothes trimmed with lace, that wasn't
to say that his parents were going to hunt for him. Besides, they're
dead."

"Perhaps they're not. And one day they may come...."

"If you women ain't obstinate!"

"But if they do come?"

"Well, we've sent him to the Home. But we've said enough. I'll take him
to-morrow. I'm going 'round to see Francois now. I'll be back in an
hour."

The door was opened and closed again. He had gone. Then I quickly sat up
in bed and began to call to Mother Barberin.

"Say! Mamma!"

She ran over to my bed.

"Are you going to let me go to the Foundlings' Home?"

"No, my little Remi, no."

She kissed me and held me tight in her arms. I felt better after that
and my tears dried on my cheeks.

"You didn't go to sleep, then?" she asked softly.

"It wasn't my fault."

"I'm not scolding you. You heard what he said, then?"

"Yes, you're not my mamma, but ... he isn't my father."

The last words I had said in a different tone because, although I was
unhappy at learning that she was not my mother, I was glad, I was almost
proud, to know that he was not my father. This contradiction of my
feelings betrayed itself in my voice. Mother Barberin did not appear to
notice.

"Perhaps I ought to have told you the truth, but you seemed so much my
own boy that I couldn't tell you I was not your real mother. You heard
what Jerome said, my boy. He found you one day in a street in Paris, the
Avenue de Breuteuil. It was in February, early in the morning, he was