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“My friend,” said M. Godefroy, “you and your adopted son have rendered me an immense service. I shall soon prove to you that I am not ungrateful. But, for to-day–I see that you are not in comfortable circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my thankfulness.”

But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the banker, which was diving into his coat-pocket where he kept bank-notes.

“No, sir; no! Anybody else should have done just as we have done. I will not accept any recompense; but pray don’t take offense. Certainly, I am not rolling in wealth, but please excuse my pride–that of an old soldier; I have the Tonquin medal–and I don’t wish to eat food which I haven’t earned.”

“As you like,” said the financier; “but an old soldier like you is capable of something better. You are too good to push a handcart. I will make some arrangement for you, never fear.”

The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly: “Well, sir, if you really wish to do something for me–“

“You’ll let me care for Zidore, won’t you?” cried M. Godefroy, eagerly.

“That I will, with the greatest of pleasure,” responded Pierron, joyfully. “I have often, thought about the child’s future. He is a sharp little fellow. His teachers are delighted with him.”

Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came over his face which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one of distrust. The thought evidently was: “Oh, when he has once left us he’ll forget us entirely.”

“You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take him to the carriage. He’ll be better at home than here, of course. Oh, you needn’t be afraid of disturbing him. He is fast asleep, and you can just pick him up. He must have his shoes on first, though.”

Following Pierron’s glance M. Godefroy perceived on the hearth, where a scanty coke fire was dying out, two pairs of children’s shoes;–the elegant ones of Raoul, and the rough ones of Zidore. Each pair contained a little toy and a package of bonbons.

“Don’t think about that,” said Pierron in an abashed tone. “Zidore put the shoes there. You know children still believe in Christmas and the child Jesus, whatever scholars may say about fables; so, as I came back from the commissaire, as I didn’t know whether your boy would have to stay here to-night, I got those things for them both.”

At which the eyes of M. Godefroy, the freethinker, the hardened capitalist, and blase man of the world, filled with tears.

He rushed out of the house, but returned in a minute with his arms full of the superb mechanical horse, the box of leaden soldiers, and the rest of the costly playthings bought by him in the afternoon, and which had not even been taken out of the carriage.

“My friend, my dear friend,” said he to the greengrocer, “see, these are the presents which Christmas has brought to my little Raoul. I want him to find them here, when he awakens, and to share them with Zidore, who will henceforth be his playmate and friend. You’ll trust me now, won’t you? I’ll take care both of Zidore and of you, and then I shall ever remain in your debt, for not only have you found my boy, but you have also reminded me, who am rich and lived only for myself, that there are other poor who need to be looked after. I swear by these two sleeping children, I won’t forget them any longer.”

Such is the miracle which happened on the 24th of December of last year, ladies and gentlemen, at Paris, in the full flow of modern egotism. It doesn’t sound likely–that I own; and I am compelled to attribute this miraculous event to the influence of the Divine Child who came down to earth nearly nineteen centuries ago to command men to love one another.