it her; and the poor woman remembers you
day and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put that money in
another sort of savings' bank; but there it is our hearts that get
the interest.

"Good-bye, dear Jacquot. Write to me often, and always remember the
good God, and your old mother,

"PHROSINE MILLOT."

Good son, and worthy mother! how such examples bring us back to a love
for the human race! In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy the
fate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; but
impartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes. We find, on
examination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the good so
far abounds that we are not in the habit of noticing it, while the evil
strikes us precisely on account of its being the exception. If nothing is
perfect, nothing is so bad as to be without its compensation or its
remedy. What spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evils of
society! how much does the moral world redeem the material!

That which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is his
power of deliberate affection and of enduring self-sacrifice. The mother
who took care of her brood in the corner of my window devoted to them the
necessary time for accomplishing the laws which insure the preservation
of her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not a rational choice. When
she had accomplished the mission appointed her by Providence, she cast
off the duty as we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to her
selfish liberty. The other mother, on the contrary, will go on with her
task as long as God shall leave her here below: the life of her son will
still remain, so to speak, joined to her own; and when she disappears
from the earth, she will leave there that part of herself.

Thus, the affections make for our species an existence separate from all
the rest of creation. Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrial
immortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man alone
perpetuates himself.

CHAPTER IX

THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT

September 15th, Eight O'clock

This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in,
and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For the
nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in
her little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but
Mother Genevieve has but little custom;