e dim light of a little oil lamp M.
Godefroy could just distinguish a dresser from which a drawer was
missing, some broken chairs, a round table on which stood a beer-mug
which was half empty, three glasses, some cold meat on a plate, and on
the bare plaster of the wall two gaudy pictures--a bird's-eye view of
the Exposition of 1889, with the Eiffel Tower in bright blue, and the
portrait of General Boulanger when a handsome young lieutenant. This
last evidence of weakness of the tenant of the house may well be
excused, since it was shared by nearly everybody in France. The man took
the lamp and went on tiptoe to the corner of the room where, on a clean
bed, two little fellows were fast asleep. In the little one, around whom
the other had thrown a protecting arm, M. Godefroy recognized his son.

"The youngsters were tired to death, and so sleepy," said Pierron,
trying to soften his rough voice. "I had no idea when you would come,
so gave them some supper and put them to bed, and then I went to make
a declaration at the police office. Zidore generally sleeps up in the
garret, but I thought they would be better here, and that I should be
better able to watch them."

M. Godefroy, however, scarcely heard the explanation. Strangely moved,
he looked at the two sleeping infants on an iron bedstead and covered
with an old blanket which had once been used either in barracks or
hospital. Little Raoul, who was still in his velvet suit, looked so
frail and delicate compared with his companion that the banker almost
envied the latter his brown complexion.

"Is he your boy?" he asked Pierron.

"No," answered he. "I am a bachelor, and don't suppose I shall ever
marry, because of my accident. You see, a dray passed over my arm--that
was all. Two years ago a neighbor of mine died, when that child was
only five years old. The poor mother really died of starvation. She wove
wreaths for the cemeteries, but could make nothing worth mentioning at
that trade--not enough to live. However, she worked for the child for
five years, and then the neighbors had to buy wreaths for her. So I took
care of the youngster. Oh, it was nothing much, and I was soon repaid.
He is seven years old, and is a sharp little fellow, so he helps me a
great deal. On Sundays and Thursdays, and the other days after school,
he helps me push my handcart. Zidore is a smart little chap. It was he
who found your boy."

"What!" exclaimed M. Godefroy--"that child!"

"Oh,