Josephine inspected it.

"It looks sickly, poor little thing," said she.
"What can you expect, young lady ?" said the woman.

"Its mother had to rise and go about when she ought to have been in her bed, and now she has not enough to give it." "Oh, dear!" cried Josephine.

"Jacintha, give them some food and a nice bottle of wine." "That I will," cried Jacintha, changing her tone with courtier-like alacrity.

"I did not see she was nursing." Josephine put a franc into the infant's hand; the little fingers closed on it with that instinct of appropriation, which is our first and often our last sentiment.