I have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the
milkwoman's.

Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when
quite young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has
not gone back to it again. She has neither husband nor child,
notwithstanding the title they give her; but her kindness, which never
sleeps, makes her worthy of the name of mother.

A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good
her humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leaving
the rest to God.

At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one of
the corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. They
wear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold
large slices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the
eyes with his, and that is the reason of their mirth.

Mother Denis points them out to me.

"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, putting
her hand on the head of the little glutton.

"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.

"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the
streets of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good
God!"

"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.

"What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;
"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for
once they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will make
up for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountains
to me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."

Here her eyes filled with tears.

"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"
resumed I.

"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter of
these little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, and
gives you heart to live."

As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added
some apples and a handful of nuts to them.

"Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets against
to-morrow."

Then, turning to me:

"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have our
Carnival."

I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.

At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding
the egotism of sensuality and of i