Virgin. Ah! fifteen years! she will be grown up now! — Unhappy child! what! it is really true then I shall never see her more, not even in heaven, for I shall not go there myself.

Oh! what misery to think that here is her shoe, and that that is all!”

The unhappy woman flung herself upon that shoe; her consolation and her despair for so many years, and her vitals were rent with sobs as on the first day; because, for a mother who has lost her child, it is always the first day. That grief never grows old. The mourning garments may grow white and threadbare, the heart remains dark.

At that moment, the fresh and joyous cries of children passed in front of the cell. Every time that children crossed her vision or struck her ear, the poor mother