Cosette came in from the garden, singing to herself. "Papa!" she called. "Papa, look what I found!"

Valjean emerged from the sitting room, and she rushed to him.

"See? Mistletoe! To hang in the house, for Christmas. It was growing on the tree by the garden bench, just in my reach when I stretched—put it up, Papa. For me, please."

He stood there, staring at her radiant face. Mistletoe? But mistletoe was for lovers. For a moment, his mind flashed back to that young man in the Luxembourg, the one who'd looked at his Cosette in such a way—could it be she was thinking of him? Hoping? Growing up?

"Please," Cosette repeated, with wide and happy eyes. He could not refuse her, and sought out a nail and some string.

A few minutes later, the green sprig with white berries was above the door into the sitting room, and Cosette was standing back to admire it. Then she looked up at him and took his hand.

"Come, Papa, and let me kiss you."

As they moved under the mistletoe and she pressed her lips to his cheek, joy rushed over him. Cosette was happy; Cosette loved him. And that was all he needed to know.

"Happy Christmas, my child," he said, kissing her on the forehead.