of yellow letters, the handwriting of which we will not guess at, there
is a little museum of sacred relics--the last shoes in which he played
about on the gravel the day he complained of being cold, the remains of
some broken toys, a dried sprig of box, a little cap, his last, in a
triple wrapper, and a thousand trifles that are a world to you, poor
woman, that are the fragments of your broken heart?

The ties that unite children to parents are unloosed. Those which unite
parents to children are broken. In one case, it is the past that is
wiped out; in the other, the future that is rent away.




CHAPTER XXXIII

CONVALESCENCE

But, my patient reader, forget what have just said. Baby does not want
to leave you, he does not want to die, poor little thing, and if you want
a proof of it, watch him very closely; there, he smiles.

A very faint smile like those rays of sunlight that steal between two
clouds at the close of a wet winter. You rather guess at than see this
smile, but it is enough to warm your heart. The cloud begins to
disperse, he sees you, he hears you, he knows that papa is there, your
child is restored to you. His glance is already clearer. Call him
softly. He wants to turn, but he can not yet, and for his sole answer
his little hand, which is beginning to come to life again, moves and
crumples the sheet. Just wait a little, poor impatient father, and