Last year at Christmas time, my wife, three children and I were on our way from Paris to Nice. Somehow everything went wrong. Our hotels were “tourist traps” and our rented car broke down. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dirty hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.

It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a small restaurant poorly decorated for the holiday. Only five tables in the restaurant were taken. There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor, by himself. They were eating in stony silence except the sailor. He was writing a letter, and a half-smile lighted his face. In the corner a piano player was listlessly (无精打采地) playing Christmas music.

All of us were interrupted by an old French flower woman through the front door. She had a worn overcoat and her old shoes were wet. Carrying her basket of flowers, she went from one table to another. No one bought any. Exhausted and sad, she sat down at a table.

The sailor finished his meal and got up to leave. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman’s table.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, smiling and picking out a handful of flowers. “How much are they?”

“Two francs, sir.”

The sailor put a twenty franc note in the woman’s hand.

“I don’t have change, sir,” she said. “I’ll get some from the waiter.”

“No, ma’am,” said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. “This is my Christmas present for you.”

Then the sailor headed for our table with the flowers in his hand.

I was eight years old the first time I felt sympathy (同情) for my sister. It happened on Easter, one of our favorite holidays.

“Michelle,” I whispered on Easter morning. But there was no reply. “Now!” I shouted before putting my hand over my mouth. The last thing I wanted to do was wake up our parents. After a few minutes, my sister finally pulled herself out of bed.

It didn’t take long for me to find my basket. But twenty minutes later my sister was still looking for her basket. At her repeated requests, I decided to help, but don't get the wrong idea. It wasn’t because I felt sorry for her. It was because I’d now been issued a challenge. I had a mission and a case to solve. The Case of the Missing Basket.

By now, our parents were awake. “Looks like the Easter bunny (复活节兔子) came!” Mum said, “You haven’t found your basket, Michelle? Let’s keep looking.” Mom pointed to the hallway closet (壁橱), saying “We haven’t looked in any closets”. Michelle shot across the room, opened the closet door and started searching through the shoes and bags and gloves on the closet floor. Nothing.

“Look up!” I said. “Up above the jackets!” Mission completed.

“My basket !” she shouted. “Mom, can you get it?” Way up on the shelf where we usually kept our soaps was my sister’s Easter basket.

“Here you go, honey” Mom said, as she handed Michelle her basket, too excited to notice anything strange before passing it off. And that’s when it happened. My sister, the tough girl that I, until that day, had never seen break down, started crying.

My sister’s Easter basket was empty except for the chocolate box ruined by mice.

But as I read my magazine, I felt something I’d never felt towards my sister before.