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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade
+#3 in our series by L. T. Meade
+
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+Title: The Children's Pilgrimage
+
+Author: L. T. Meade
+
+Release Date: November, 2004 [EBook #6899]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on February 9, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE
+
+BY
+
+MRS. L. T. MEADE
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE
+
+
+
+
+
+
+FIRST PART.
+
+"LOOKING FOR THE GUIDE."
+
+
+
+  "The night is dark, and I am far from home.
+  Lead Thou me on"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+"THREE ON A DOORSTEP."
+
+
+In a poor part of London, but not in the very poorest part--two
+children sat on a certain autumn evening, side by side on a doorstep.
+The eldest might have been ten, the youngest eight. The eldest was a
+girl, the youngest a boy. Drawn up in front of these children,
+looking into their little faces with hungry, loving, pathetic eyes,
+lay a mongrel dog.
+
+The three were alone, for the street in which they sat was a cul-de-sac
+--leading nowhere; and at this hour, on this Sunday evening,
+seemed quite deserted. The boy and girl were no East End waifs; they
+were clean; they looked respectable; and the doorstep which gave them
+a temporary resting-place belonged to no far-famed Stepney or Poplar.
+It stood in a little, old-fashioned, old-world court, back of
+Bloomsbury. They were a foreign-looking little pair--not in their
+dress, which was truly English in its clumsiness and want of
+picturesque coloring--but their faces were foreign. The contour was
+peculiar, the setting of the two pairs of eyes--un-Saxon. They sat
+very close together, a grave little couple. Presently the girl threw
+her arm round the boy's neck, the boy laid his head on her shoulder.
+In this position those who watched could have traced motherly lines
+round this little girl's firm mouth. She was a creature to defend and
+protect. The evening fell and the court grew dark, but the boy had
+found shelter on her breast, and the dog, coming close, laid his head
+on her lap.
+
+After a time the boy raised his eyes, looked at her and spoke:
+
+"Will it be soon, Cecile?"
+
+"I think so, Maurice; I think it must be soon now."
+
+"I'm so cold, Cecile, and it's getting so dark."
+
+"Never mind, darling, stepmother will soon wake now, and then you
+can come indoors and sit by the fire."
+
+The boy, with a slight impatient sigh, laid his head once more on
+her shoulder, and the grave trio sat on as before.
+
+Presently a step was heard approaching inside the house--it came
+along the passage, the door was opened, and a gentleman in a plain
+black coat came out. He was a doctor and a young man. His smooth,
+almost boyish face looked so kind that it could not but be an index
+to a charitable heart.
+
+He stopped before the children, looking at them with interest and
+pity.
+
+"How is our stepmother, Dr. Austin?" asked Cecile, raising her head
+and speaking with alacrity.
+
+"Your stepmother is very ill, my dear--very ill indeed. I stopped
+with her to write a letter which she wants me to post. Yes, she is
+very ill, but she is awake now; you may go upstairs; you won't
+disturb her."
+
+"Oh, come, Cecile," said little Maurice, springing to his feet;
+"stepmother is awake, and we may get to the fire. I am so bitter cold."
+
+There was not a particle of anything but a kind of selfish longing
+for warmth and comfort on his little face. He ran along the passage
+holding out his hand to his sister, but Cecile drew back. She came
+out more into the light and looked straight up into the tall doctor's
+face:
+
+"Is my stepmother going to be ill very long, Dr. Austin?"
+
+"No, my dear; I don't expect her illness will last much longer."
+
+"Oh, then, she'll be quite well to-morrow."
+
+"Perhaps--in a sense--who knows!" said the doctor, jerking out his
+words and speaking queerly. He looked as if he wanted to say more,
+but finally nodding to the child, turned on his heel and walked away.
+
+Cecile, satisfied with this answer, and reading no double meaning in
+it, followed her brother and the dog upstairs. She entered a
+tolerably comfortable sitting-room, where, on a sofa, lay a woman
+partly dressed. The woman's cheeks were crimson, and her large eyes,
+which were wide open, were very bright. Little Maurice had already
+found a seat and a hunch of bread and butter, and was enjoying both
+drawn up by a good fire, while the dog Toby crouched at his feet and
+snapped at morsels which he threw him. Cecile, scarcely glancing at
+the group by the fire, went straight up to the woman on the sofa:
+
+"Stepmother," she said, taking her hand in hers, "Dr. Austin says
+you'll be quite well to-morrow."
+
+The woman gazed hard and hungrily into the sweet eyes of the child;
+she held her small hand with almost feverish energy, but she did not
+speak, and when Maurice called out from the fire, "Cecile, I want
+some more bread and butter," she motioned to her to go and attend to
+him.
+
+All his small world did attend to Maurice at once, so Cecile ran to
+him, and after supplying him with milk and bread and butter, she took
+his hand to lead him to bed. There were only two years between the
+children, but Maurice seemed quite a baby, and Cecile a womanly
+creature.
+
+When they got into the tiny bedroom, which they shared together,
+Cecile helped her little brother to undress, and tucked him up when
+he got into bed.
+
+"Now, Toby," she said, addressing the dog, whose watchful eyes had
+followed her every movement, "you must lie down by Maurice and keep
+him company; and good-night, Maurice, dear."
+
+"Won't you come to bed too, Cecile?"
+
+"Presently, darling; but first I have to see to stepmother. Our
+stepmother is very ill, you know, Maurice."
+
+"Very ill, you know," repeated Maurice sleepily, and without
+comprehending; then he shut his eyes, and Cecile went back into the
+sitting-room.
+
+The sick woman had never stirred during the child's absence, now she
+turned round eagerly. The little girl went up to the sofa with a
+confident step. Though her stepmother was so ill now, she would be
+quite well to-morrow, so the doctor had said, and surely the best way
+to bring that desirable end about was to get her to have as much
+sleep as possible.
+
+"Stepmother," said Cecile softly, "'tis very late; may I bring in
+your night-dress and air it by the fire, and then may I help you to
+get into bed, stepmother dear?"
+
+"No, Cecile," replied the sick woman. "I'm not going to stir from
+this yere sofa to-night."
+
+"Oh, but then--but then you won't be quite well to-morrow," said the
+child, tears springing to her eyes.
+
+"Who said I'd be quite well to-morrow?" asked Cecile's stepmother.
+
+"Dr. Austin, mother; I asked him, and he said, 'Yes,'--at least he
+said 'Perhaps,' but I think he was very sure from his look."
+
+"Aye, child, aye; he was very sure, but he was not meaning what you
+were meaning. Well, never mind; but what was that you called me just
+now, Cecile?"
+
+"I--I----" said Cecile, hesitating and coloring.
+
+"Aye, like enough 'twas a slip of your tongue. But you said,
+'Mother'; you said it without the 'step' added on. You don't know
+--not that it matters now--but you won't never know how that
+'stepmother' hardened my heart against you and Maurice, child."
+
+"'Twas our father," said Cecile; "he couldn't forget our own mother,
+and he asked us not to say 'Mother,' and me and Maurice, we could
+think of no other way. It wasn't that we--that I--didn't love."
+
+"Aye, child, you're a tender little thing; I'm not blaming you, and
+maybe I couldn't have borne the word from your lips, for I didn't
+love you, Cecile--neither you nor Maurice--I had none of the mother
+about me for either of you little kids. Aye, you were right enough;
+your father, Maurice D'Albert, never forgot his Rosalie, as he called
+her. I always thought as Frenchmen were fickle, but he worn't not
+fickle enough for me. Well, Cecile, I'm no way sleepy, and I've a
+deal to say, and no one but you to say it to; I'm more strong now
+than I have been for the day, so I'd better say my say while I have
+any strength left. You build up the fire, and then come back to me,
+child. Build it up big, for I'm not going to bed to-night."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+A SOLEMN PROMISE.
+
+
+When Cecile had built up the fire, she made a cup of tea and brought
+it to her stepmother. Mrs. D'Albert drank it off greedily; afterward
+she seemed refreshed and she made Cecile put another pillow under her
+head and draw her higher on the sofa.
+
+"You're a good, tender-hearted child, Cecile," she said to the
+little creature, who was watching her every movement with a kind of
+trembling eagerness. Cecile's sensitive face flushed at the words of
+praise, and she came very close to the sofa. "Yes, you're a good
+child," repeated Mrs. D'Albert; "you're yer father's own child, and
+he was very good, though he was a foreigner. For myself I don't much
+care for good people, but when you're dying, I don't deny as they're
+something of a comfort. Good people are to be depended on, and you're
+good, Cecile."
+
+But there was only one sentence in these words which Cecile took in.
+
+"When you're dying," she repeated, and every vestige of color
+forsook her lips.
+
+"Yes, my dear, when you're dying. I'm dying, Cecile; that was what
+the doctor meant when he said I'd he quite well; he meant as I'd lie
+straight and stiff, and have my eyes shut, and be put in a long box
+and be buried, that was what he meant, Cecile. But look here now,
+you're not to cry about it--not at present, I mean; you may as much
+as you like by and by, but not now. I'm not crying, and 'tis a deal
+worse for me; but there ain't no time for tears, they only weaken and
+do no good, and I has a deal to say. Don't you dare shed a tear now,
+Cecile; I can't a-bear the sight of tears; you may cry by and by, but
+now you has got to listen to me."
+
+"I won't cry," said Cecile; she made a great effort set her lips
+firm, and looked hard at her stepmother.
+
+"That's a good, brave girl. Now I can talk in comfort. I want to
+talk all I can to you to-night, my dear, for to-morrow I may have the
+weakness back again, and besides your Aunt Lydia will be here!"
+
+"Who's my Aunt Lydia?" asked Cecile.
+
+"She ain't rightly your aunt at all, she's my sister; but she's the
+person as will have to take care of you and Maurice after I'm dead."
+
+"Oh!" said Cecile; her little face fell, and a bright color came
+into her cheeks.
+
+"She's my own sister," continued Mrs. D'Albert, "but I don't like
+her much. She's a good woman enough; not up to yer father's standard,
+but still fair enough. But she's hard--she is hard ef you like. I
+don't profess to have any violent love for you two little tots, but
+I'd sooner not leave you to the care o' Aunt Lydia ef I could help it."
+
+"Don't leave us to her care; do find some one kind--some one as 'ull
+be kind to me, and Maurice, and Toby--do help it, stepmother," said
+Cecile.
+
+"I _can't_ help it, child; and there's no use bothering a dying
+woman who's short of breath. You and Maurice have got to go to my
+sister, your Aunt Lydia, and ef you'll take a word of advice by and
+by, Cecile, from one as 'ull be in her grave, you'll not step-aunt
+her--she's short of temper, Aunt Lydia is. Yes," continued the sick
+woman, speaking fast, and gasping for breath a little, "you have
+got to go to my sister Lydia. I have sent her word, and she'll come
+to-morrow--but--never mind that now. I ha' something else I must say
+to you, Cecile."
+
+"Yes, stepmother."
+
+"I ha' no one else to say it to, so you listen werry hard. I'm going
+to put a great trust on you, little mite as you are--a great, great
+trust; you has got to do something solemn, and to promise something
+solemn too, Cecile."
+
+"Yes," said Cecile, opening her blue eyes wide.
+
+"Aye, you may well say yes, and open yer eyes big; you're going to
+get some'ut on yer shoulders as 'ull make a woman of yer. You mayn't
+like it, I don't suppose as you will; but for all that you ha' got to
+promise, because I won't die easy, else. Cecile," suddenly bending
+forward, and grasping the child's arm almost cruelly, "I can't die at
+_all_ till you promise me this solemn and grave, as though it
+were yer very last breath."
+
+"I will promise, stepmother," said Cecile. "I'll promise solemn, and
+I'll keep it solemn; don't you be fretted, now as you're a-dying. I
+don't mind ef it is hard. Father often give me hard things to do, and
+I did 'em. Father said I wor werry dependable," continued the little
+creature gravely.
+
+To her surprise, her stepmother bent forward and and kissed her. The
+kiss she gave was warm, intense, passionate; such a kiss as Cecile
+had never before received from those lips.
+
+"You're a good child," she said eagerly; "yes, you're a very good
+child; you promise me solemn and true, then I'll die easy and
+comforted. Yes, I'll die easy, even though Lovedy ain't with me, even
+though I'll never lay my eyes on my Lovedy again."
+
+"Who's Lovedy?" asked Cecile.
+
+"Aye, child, we're coming to Lovedy, 'tis about Lovedy you've got to
+promise. Lovedy, she's my daughter, Cecile; she ain't no step-child,
+but my own, my werry own, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh."
+
+"I never knew as you had a daughter of yer werry own," said Cecile.
+
+"But I had, Cecile. I had as true a child to me as you were to yer
+father. My own, my own, my darling! Oh, my bonnie one, 'tis bitter,
+bitter to die with her far, far away! Not for four years now have I
+seen my girl. Oh, if I could see her face once again!"
+
+Here the poor woman, who was opening up her life-story to the
+astonished and frightened child, lost her self-control, and sobbed
+hysterically. Cecile fetched water, and gave it to her, and in a few
+moments she became calm.
+
+"There now, my dear, sit down and listen. I'll soon be getting weak,
+and I must tell everything tonight. Years ago, Cecile, afore ever I
+met yer father, I was married. My husband was a sailor, and he died
+at sea. But we had one child, one beautiful, bonnie English girl;
+nothing foreign about her, bless her! She was big and tall, and fair
+as a lily, and her hair, it was that golden that when the sun shone
+on it it almost dazzled you. I never seed such hair as my Lovedy's,
+never, never; it all fell in curls long below her waist. I _was_
+that proud of it I spent hours dressing it and washing it, and
+keeping it like any lady's. Then her eyes, they were just two bits of
+the blue sky in her head, and her little teeth were like white
+pearls, and her lips were always smiling. She had an old-world
+English name taken from my mother, but surely it fitted her, for to
+look at her was to love her.
+
+"Well, my dear, my girl and me, we lived together till she was near
+fifteen, and never a cloud between us. We were very poor; we lived by
+my machining and what Lovedy could do to help me. There was never a
+cloud between us, until one day I met yer father. I don't say as yer
+father loved me much, for his heart was in the grave with your
+mother, but he wanted someone to care for you two, and he thought me
+a tidy, notable body, and so he asked me to marry him and he seemed
+well off, and I thought it 'ud be a good thing for Lovedy. Besides, I
+had a real fancy for him; so I promised. I never even guessed as my
+girl 'ud mind, and I went home to our one shabby little room, quite
+light-hearted like, to tell her. But oh, Cecile, I little knew my
+Lovedy! Though I had reared her I did not know her nature. My news
+seemed to change her all over.
+
+"From being so sweet and gentle, she seemed to have the very devil
+woke up in her. First soft, and trembling and crying, she went down
+on her knees and begged me to give yer father up; but I liked him,
+and I felt angered with her for taking on what I called foolish, and
+I wouldn't yield; and I told her she was real silly, and I was
+ashamed of her. They were the bitterest words I ever flung at her,
+and they seemed to freeze up her whole heart. She got up off her
+knees and walked away with her pretty head in the air, and wouldn't
+speak to me for the evening; and the next day she come to me quick
+and haughty like, and said that if I gave her a stepfather she would
+not live with me; she would go to her Aunt Fanny, and her Aunt Fanny
+would take her to Paris, and there she would see life. Fanny was my
+youngest sister, and she was married to a traveler for one of the big
+shops, and often went about with her husband and had a gay time. She
+had no children of her own, and I knew she envied me my Lovedy beyond
+words.
+
+"I was so hurt with Lovedy for saying she would leave me for her
+Aunt Fanny, that I said, bitter and sharp, she might do as she liked,
+and that I did not care.
+
+"Then she turned very red and went away and sat down and wrote a
+letter, and I knew she had made up her mind to leave me. Still I
+wasn't really frightened. I said to myself, I'll pretend to let her
+have her own way, and she'll come round fast enough; and I began to
+get ready for my wedding, and took no heed of Lovedy. The night
+before I was married she came to me again. She was white as a sheet,
+and all the hardness had gone out of her.
+
+"'Mother, mother, mother,' she said, and she put her dear, bonnie
+arms round me and clasped me tight to her. 'Mother, give him up, for
+Lovedy's sake; it will break my heart, mother. Mother, I am jealous;
+I must have you altogether or not at all. Stay at home with your own
+Lovedy, for pity's sake, for pity's sake.'
+
+"Of course I soothed her and petted her, and I think--I do think now
+--that she, poor darling, had a kind of notion I was going to yield,
+and that night she slept in my arms.
+
+"The next morning I put on my neat new dress and bonnet, and went
+into her room.
+
+"'Lovedy, will you come to church to see your mother married?'
+
+"I never forgot--never, never, the look she gave me. She went white
+as marble, and her eyes blazed at me and then grew hard, and she put
+her head down on her hands, and, do all in my power, I could not get
+a word out of her.
+
+"Well, Cecile, yer father and I were married, and when we came back
+Lovedy was gone. There was just a little bit of a note, all blotted
+with tears, on the table. Cecile, I have got that little note, and
+you must put it in my coffin. These words were writ on it by my poor
+girl: "'Mother, you had no pity, so your Lovedy is gone. Good-by,
+mother.'
+
+"Yes, Cecile, that was the note, and what it said was true. My
+Lovedy was gone. She had disappeared, and so had her Aunt Fanny, and
+never, never from that hour have I heard one single word of Lovedy."
+
+Mrs. D'Albert paused here. The telling of her tale seemed to have
+changed her. In talking of her child the hard look had left her face,
+an expression almost beautiful in its love and longing filled her
+poor dim eyes, and when Cecile, in her sympathy, slipped her little
+hand into hers, she did not resist the pressure.
+
+"Yes, Cecile," she continued, turning to the little girl, "I lost
+Lovedy--more surely than if she was dead, was she torn from me. I
+never got one clew to her. Yer father did all he could for me; he was
+more than kind, he did pity me, and he made every inquiry for my girl
+and advertised for her, but her aunt had taken her out of England,
+and I never heard--I never heard of my Lovedy from the day I married
+yer father, Cecile. It changed me, child; it changed me most bitter.
+I grew hard, and I never could love you nor Maurice, no, nor even yer
+good father, very much after that. I always looked upon you three as
+the people who took by bonnie girl away. It was unfair of me. Now, as
+I'm dying, I'll allow as it was real unfair, but the pain and hunger
+in my heart was most awful to bear. You'll forgive me for never
+loving you, when you think of all the pain I had to bear, Cecile."
+
+"Yes, poor stepmother," answered the little girl, stooping down and
+kissing her hand. "And, oh!" continued Cecile with fervor, "I wish--I
+wish I could find Lovedy for you again."
+
+"Why, Cecile, that's just what you've got to do," said her
+stepmother; "you've got to look for Lovedy: you're a very young
+girl; you're only a child; but you've got to go on looking, _always
+--always_ until you find her. The finding of my Lovedy is to be yer
+life-work, Cecile. I don't want you to begin now, not till you're
+older and have got more sense; but you has to keep it firm in yer
+head, and in two or three years' time you must begin. You must go on
+looking until you find my Lovedy. That is what you have to promise me
+before I die."
+
+"Yes, stepmother."
+
+"Look me full in the face, Cecile, and make the promise as solemn as
+though it were yer werry last breath--look me in the face, Cecile,
+and say after me, 'I promise to find Lovedy again.'"
+
+"I promise to find Lovedy again," repeated Cecile.
+
+"Now kiss me, child."
+
+Cecile did so.
+
+"That kiss is a seal," continued her stepmother; "ef you break yer
+promise, you'll remember as you kissed the lips of her who is dead,
+and the feel 'ull haunt you, and you'll never know a moment's
+happiness. But you're a good girl, Cecile--a good, dependable child,
+and I'm not afeared for you. And now, my dear, you has made the
+promise, and I has got to give you directions. Cecile, did you ever
+wonder why your stepmother worked so hard?"
+
+"I thought we must be very poor," said Cecile.
+
+"No, my dear, yer father had that little bit of money coming in from
+France every year. It will come in for four or five years more, and
+it will be enough to pay Aunt Lydia for taking care on you both. No,
+Cecile, I did not work for myself, nor for you and Maurice--I worked
+for Lovedy. All that beautiful church embroidery as I sat up so late
+at night over, the money I got for it was for my girl; every lily I
+worked, and every passion-flower, and every leaf, took a little drop
+of my heart's blood, I think; but 'twas done for her. Now, Cecile,
+put yer hand under my pillow--there's a purse there."
+
+Cecile drew out an old, worn Russia-leather purse.
+
+"Lovedy 'ud recognize that purse," said her mother, "it belonged to
+her own father. She and I always kept our little earnings in it, in
+the old happy days. Now open the purse, Cecile; you must know what is
+inside it."
+
+Cecile pressed the spring and took out a little bundle of notes.
+
+"There, child, you open them--see, there are four notes--four Bank
+of England notes for ten pounds each--that's forty pounds--forty
+pounds as her mother earned for my girl. You give her those notes in
+the old purse, Cecile. You give them into her own hands, and you say,
+'Your mother sent you those. Your mother is dead, but she broke her
+heart for you, she never forgot your voice when you said for pity's
+sake, and she asks you now for pity's sake to forgive her.' That's
+the message as you has to take to Lovedy, Cecile."
+
+"Yes, stepmother, I'll take her that message--very faithful; very,
+very faithful, stepmother."
+
+"And now put yer hand into the purse again, Cecile; there's more
+money in the purse--see! there's fifteen pounds all in gold. I had
+that money all in gold, for I knew as it 'ud be easier for you--that
+fifteen pounds is for you, Cecile, to spend in looking for Lovedy;
+you must not waste it, and you must spend it on nothing else. I guess
+you'll have to go to France to find my Lovedy; but ef you're very
+careful, that money ought to last till you find her."
+
+"There'll be heaps and heaps of money here," said Cecile, looking at
+the little pile of gold with almost awe.
+
+"Yes, child, but there won't, not unless you're _very_ saving,
+and ask all sensible questions about how to go and how best to find
+Lovedy. You must walk as much as you can, Cecile, and live very
+plain, for you may have to go a power of miles--yes, a power, before
+you find my girl; and ef you're starving, you must not touch those
+four notes of money, only the fifteen pounds. Remember, only that;
+and when you get to the little villages away in France, you may go to
+the inns and ask there ef an English girl wor ever seen about the
+place. You describe her, Cecile--tall, a tall, fair English girl,
+with hair like the sun; you say as her name is Lovedy--Lovedy Joy.
+You must get a deal o' sense to do this business proper, Cecile; but
+ef you has sense and patience, why you will find my girl."
+
+"There's only one thing, stepmother," said Cecile; "I'll do
+everything as you tells me, every single thing; I'll be as careful as
+possible, and I'll save every penny; but I can't go to look for your
+Lovedy without Maurice, for I promised father afore ever I promised
+you as I'd never lose sight on Maurice till he grew up, and it 'ud be
+too long to put off looking for Lovedy till Maurice was grown up,
+stepmother."
+
+"I suppose it would," answered Cecile's stepmother; "'tis a pity,
+for he'll spend some of the money. But there, it can't be helped, and
+you'll do your best. I'll trust you to do yer werry best, Cecile."
+
+"My werry, werry best," said Cecile earnestly.
+
+"Well, child, there's only one thing more. All this as I'm telling
+you is a secret, a solemn, solemn secret. Ef yer Aunt Lydia gets wind
+on it, or ef she ever even guesses as you have all that money,
+everything 'ull be ruined. Yer aunt is hard and saving, and she do
+hanker sore for money, she always did--did Lydia, and not all the
+stories you could tell her 'ud make her leave you that money; she 'ud
+take it away, she 'ud be quite cruel enough to take the money away
+that I worked myself into my grave to save, and then it 'ud be all up
+with Lovedy. No, Cecile, you must take the purse o' money away with
+you this very night, hide it in yer dress, or anywhere, for Aunt
+Lydia may be here early in the morning, and the weakness may be on me
+then. Yes, Cecile, you has charge on that money, fifty-five pounds in
+all; fifteen pounds for you to spend, and forty to give to Lovedy.
+Wherever you go, you must hide it so safe that no one 'ull ever guess
+as a poor little girl like you has money, for anyone might rob you,
+child; but the one as I'm fearing the most is yer Aunt Lydia."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+"NEVER A MOMENT TO GET READY."
+
+
+To all these directions Cecile listened, and she there and then took
+the old worn purse with its precious contents away with her, and went
+into the bedroom which she shared with her brother, and taking out
+her needle and thread she made a neat, strong bag for the purse, and
+this bag she sewed securely into the lining of her frock-body. She
+showed her stepmother what she had done, who smiled and seemed
+satisfied.
+
+For the rest of that night Cecile sat on by the sofa where Mrs.
+D'Albert lay. Now that the excitement of telling her tale had passed,
+the dreaded weakness had come back to the poor woman. Her voice, so
+strong and full of interest when speaking of Lovedy, had sunk to a
+mere whisper. She liked, however, to have her little stepdaughter
+close to her, and even held her hand in hers. That little hand now
+was a link between her and her lost girl, and as such, for the first
+time she really loved Cecile.
+
+As for the child herself, she was too excited far to sleep. The
+sorrow so loving a heart must have felt at the prospect of her
+stepmother's approaching death was not just now realized; she was
+absorbed in the thought of the tale she had heard, of the promise she
+had made.
+
+Cecile was grave and womanly far beyond her years, and she knew well
+that she had taken no light thing on her young shoulders. To shirk
+this duty would not be possible to a nature such as hers. No, she
+must go through with it; she had registered a vow, and she must
+fulfill it. Her little face, always slightly careworn, looked now
+almost pathetic under its load of care.
+
+"Yes, poor stepmother," she kept saying to herself, "I will find
+Lovedy--I will find Lovedy or die."
+
+Then she tried to imagine the joyful moment when her quest would be
+crowned with success, when she would see herself face to face with
+the handsome, willful girl, whom she yet must utterly fail to
+understand; for it would have been completely impossible for Cecile
+herself, under any circumstances, to treat her father as Lovedy had
+treated her poor mother.
+
+"I could never, never go away like that, and let father's heart
+break," thought Cecile, her lips growing white at the bare idea
+of such suffering for one she loved. But then it came to her with
+a sense of relief that perhaps Lovedy's Aunt Fanny was the guilty
+person, and that she herself was quite innocent; her aunt, who
+was powerful and strong, had been unkind, and had not allowed her
+to write. When this thought came to Cecile, she gave a sigh of
+relief. It would be so much nicer to find Lovedy, if she was not
+so hard-hearted as her story seemed to show.
+
+All that night Mrs. D'Albert lay with her eyes closed, but not
+asleep. When the first dawn came in through the shutters she turned
+to the watching child:
+
+"Cecile," she said, "the day has broke, and this is the day the
+doctor says as perhaps I'll die."
+
+"Shall I open the shutters wide?" asked Cecile.
+
+"No, my dear. No, no! The light 'ull come quite fast enough. Cecile,
+ain't it a queer thing to be going to die, and not to be a bit ready
+to die?"
+
+"Ain't you ready, stepmother?" asked the little girl.
+
+"No, child, how could I be ready? I never had no time. I never had a
+moment to get ready, Cecile."
+
+"Never a moment to get ready," repeated Cecile. "I should have
+thought you had lots of time. You aren't at all a young woman, are
+you, stepmother? You must have been a very long time alive."
+
+"Yes, dear; it would seem long to you. But it ain't long really. It
+seems very short to look back on. I ain't forty yet, Cecile; and
+that's counted no age as lives go; but I never for all that had a
+moment. When I wor very young I married; and afore I married, I had
+only time for play and pleasure; and then afterward Lovedy came, and
+her father died, and I had to think on my grief, and how to bring up
+Lovedy. I had no time to remember about dying during those years,
+Cecile; and since my Lovedy left me, I have not had one instant to do
+anything but mourn for her, and think on her, and work for her. You
+see, Cecile, I never did have a moment, even though I seems old to
+you."
+
+"No, stepmother, I see you never did have no time," repeated Cecile
+gravely.
+
+"But it ain't nice to think on now," repeated Mrs. D'Albert, in a
+fretful, anxious key. "I ha' got to go, and I ain't ready to go,
+that's the puzzle."
+
+"Perhaps it don't take so very long to get ready," answered the
+child, in a perplexed voice.
+
+"Cecile," said Mrs. D'Albert, "you're a very wise little girl. Think
+deep now, and answer me this: Do you believe as God 'ull be very
+angry with a poor woman who had never, no never a moment of time to
+get ready to die?"
+
+"Stepmother," answered Cecile solemnly, "I don't know nothink about
+God. Father didn't know, nor my own mother; and you say you never had
+no time to know, stepmother. Only once--once----"
+
+"Well, child, go on. Once?"
+
+"Once me and Maurice were in the streets, and Toby was with us, and
+we had walked a long way and were tired, and we sat down on a
+doorstep to rest; and a girl come up, and she looked tired too, and
+she had some crochet in her hand; and she took out her crochet and
+began to work. And presently--jest as if she could not help it--she
+sang. This wor what she sang. I never forgot the words:
+
+  "'I am so glad that Jesus loves me;
+  Jesus loves even me.'
+
+"The girl had such a nice voice, stepmother, and she sang out so
+bold, and seemed so happy, that I couldn't help asking her what it
+meant. I said, 'Please, English girl, I'm only a little French girl,
+and I don't know all the English words; and please, who's Jesus, kind
+little English girl?'
+
+"'Oh! _don't_ you know about Jesus?' she said at once. 'Why,
+Jesus is--Jesus is----Oh! I don't know how to tell you; but He's
+good, He's beautiful, He's dear. Jesus loves everybody."
+
+"'Jesus loves everybody?' I said.
+
+"'Yes. Don't the hymn say so? Jesus loves even me!'"
+
+"'Oh! but I suppose 'tis because you're very, _very_ good,
+little English girl,' I said.
+
+"But the English girl said, 'No, that wasn't a bit of it. She wasn't
+good, though she did try to be. But Jesus loved everybody, whether
+they were good or not, ef only they'd believe it.'
+
+"That's all she told me, stepmother; but she just said one thing
+more, 'Oh, what a comfort to think Jesus loves one when one remembers
+about dying.'"
+
+While Cecile was telling her little tale, Mrs. D'Albert had closed
+her eyes; now she opened them.
+
+"Are you sure that is all you know, child, just 'Jesus loves
+everybody?' It do seem nice to hear that. Cecile, could you jest say
+a bit of a prayer?"
+
+"I can only say, 'Our Father,'" answered Cecile.
+
+"Well, then, go on your knees and say it earnest; say it werry
+earnest, Cecile."
+
+Cecile did so, and when her voice had ceased, Mrs. D'Albert opened
+her eyes, clasped her hands together, and spoke:
+
+"Jesus," she said, "Lord Jesus, I'm dreadful, bitter sorry as I
+never took no time to get ready to die. Jesus, can you love even me?"
+
+There was no answer in words, but a new and satisfied look came into
+the poor, hungry eyes; a moment later, and the sick and dying woman
+had dropped asleep.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+TOBY.
+
+
+Quite early in that same long morning, before little Maurice had
+even opened his sleepy eyes, the woman whom Mrs. D'Albert called Aunt
+Lydia arrived. She was a large, stout woman with a face made very red
+and rough from constant exposure to the weather. She did not live in
+London, but worked as housekeeper on a farm down in Kent. This woman
+was not the least like Mrs. D'Albert, who was pale, and rather
+refined in her expression. Aunt Lydia had never been married, and her
+life seemed to have hardened her, for not only was her face rough and
+coarse in texture, but her voice, and also, it is to be regretted,
+her mind appeared to partake of the same quality. She came noisily
+into the quiet room where Cecile had been tending her stepmother; she
+spoke in a loud tone, and appeared quite unconcerned at the very
+manifest danger of the sister she had come to see; she also instantly
+took the management of everything, and ordered Cecile out of the room.
+
+"There is no use in having children like _that_ about," she
+said in a tone of great contempt; and although her stepmother looked
+after her longingly, Cecile was obliged to leave the room and go to
+comfort and pet Maurice.
+
+The poor little girl's own heart was very heavy; she dreaded this
+harsh new voice and face that had come into her life. It did not
+matter very greatly for herself, Cecile thought, but Maurice--Maurice
+was very tender, very young, very unused to unkindness. Was it
+possible that Aunt Lydia would be unkind to little Maurice? How he
+would look at her with wonder in his big brown eyes, bigger and
+browner than English eyes are wont to be, and try hard to understand
+what it all meant, what the new tone and the new words could possibly
+signify; for Mrs. D'Albert, though she never professed to love the
+children, had always been just to them, she had never given them
+harsh treatment or rude words. It is true Cecile's heart, which was
+very big, had hungered for more than her stepmother had ever offered;
+but Maurice had felt no want, he had Cecile to love him, Toby to pet
+him; and Mrs. D'Albert always gave him the warmest corner by the
+hearth, the nicest bits to eat, the best of everything her poor and
+struggling home afforded. Maurice was rather a spoiled little boy;
+even Cecile, much as she loved him, felt that he was rather spoiled;
+all the harder now would be the changed life.
+
+But Cecile had something else just at present to make her anxious
+and unhappy. She was a shrewd and clever child; she had not been
+tossed about the world for nothing, and she could read character with
+tolerable accuracy. Without putting her thoughts into regular words,
+she yet had read in that hard new face a grasping love of power, an
+eager greed for gold, and an unscrupulous nature which would not
+hesitate to possess itself of what it could. Cecile trembled as she
+felt that little bag of gold lying near her heart--suppose, oh!
+suppose it got into Aunt Lydia's hands. Cecile felt that if this
+happened, if in this way she was unfaithful to the vow she had made,
+she should die.
+
+"There are somethings as 'ud break any heart," she said to herself,
+"and not to find Lovedy when I promised faithful, faithful to
+Lovedy's mother as I would find her; why, that 'ud break my heart.
+Father said once, when people had broken hearts they _died_, so
+I 'ud die."
+
+She began to consider already with great anxiety how she could hide
+this precious money.
+
+In the midst of her thoughts Maurice awoke, and Toby shook himself
+and came round and looked into her face.
+
+Toby was Maurice's own special property. He was Maurice's dog, and
+he always stayed with him, slept on his bed at night, remained by his
+side all day; but he had, for all his attachment for his little
+master, looks for Cecile which he never bestowed upon Maurice. For
+Maurice the expression in his brown eyes was simply protecting,
+simply loving; but for Cecile that gaze seemed to partake of a higher
+nature. For Cecile the big loving eyes grew pathetic, grew watchful,
+grew anxious. When sitting very close to Maurice, apparently absorbed
+in Maurice, he often rolled them softly round to the little girl.
+Those eyes spoke volumes. They seemed to say, "You and I have the
+care of this little baby boy. It is a great anxiety, a great
+responsibility for us, but we are equal to the task. He is a dear
+little fellow, but only a baby; you and I, Cecile, are his grown-up
+protectors." Toby gamboled with Maurice, but with Cecile he never
+attempted to play. His every movement, every glance, seemed to say
+--"_We_ don't care for this nonsense, I only do it to amuse the
+child."
+
+On this particular morning Toby read at a glance the new anxiety in
+Cecile's face. Instantly this anxiety was communicated to his own. He
+hung his head, his eyes became clouded, and he looked quite an old
+dog when he returned to Maurice's side.
+
+When Maurice was dressed, Cecile conducted him as quietly as she
+could down the stairs and out through the hall to the old-world and
+deserted little court. The sun was shining here this morning. It was
+a nice autumn morning, and the little court looked rather bright.
+Maurice quite clapped his hands, and instantly began to run about and
+called to Toby to gambol with him. Toby glanced at Cecile, who nodded
+in reply, and then she ran upstairs to try and find some breakfast
+which she could bring into the court for all three. She had to go
+into the little sitting-room where her stepmother lay breathing loud
+and hard, and with her eyes shut. There was a look of great pain on
+her face, and Cecile, with a rush of sorrow, felt that she had looked
+much happier when she alone had been caring for her. Aunt Lydia,
+however, must be a good nurse, for she had made the room look quite
+like a sickroom. She had drawn down the blinds and placed a little
+table with bottles by the sofa, and she herself was bustling about,
+with a very busy and important air. She was not quiet, however, as
+Cecile had been, and her voice, which was reduced to a whisper pitch,
+had an irritating effect, as all voices so pitched have.
+
+Cecile, securing a loaf of bread and a jug of milk, ran downstairs,
+and she, Maurice, and Toby had their breakfast in truly picnic
+fashion. Afterward the children and dog stayed out in the court for
+the rest of the day. The little court faced south, and the sun stayed
+on it for many hours, so that Maurice was not cold, and every hour or
+so Cecile crept upstairs and listened outside the sitting-room door.
+There was always that hard breathing within, but otherwise no sound.
+At last the sun went off the court, and Maurice got cold and cried,
+and then Cecile, as softly as she had brought him out, took him back
+to their little bedroom. Having had no sleep the night before, she
+was very weary now, and she lay down on the bed, and before she had
+time to think about it was fast asleep.
+
+From this sleep she was awakened by a hand touching her, a light
+being flashed in her eyes, and Aunt Lydia's strong, deep voice
+bidding her get up and come with her at once.
+
+Cecile followed her without a word into the next room.
+
+The dying woman was sitting up on a sofa, supported by pillows, and
+her breathing came quicker and louder than ever.
+
+"Cecile," she gasped, "Cecile, say that bit--bit of a hymn once
+again."
+
+  "I am so glad Jesus loves me,
+    Even me."
+
+repeated the child instantly.
+
+"Even me," echoed the dying woman.
+
+Then she closed her eyes, but she felt about with her hand until it
+clasped the little warm hand of the child.
+
+"Go back to your room now, Cecile," said Aunt Lydia.
+
+But the dying hand pressed the little hand, and Cecile answered
+gravely and firmly:
+
+"Stepmother 'ud like me to stay, Aunt Lydia."
+
+Aunt Lydia did not speak again, and for half an hour there was
+silence. Suddenly Cecile's stepmother opened her eyes bright and wide.
+
+"Lovedy," she said, "Lovedy; find Lovedy," and then she died.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+THE TIN BOX AND ITS TREASURE.
+
+
+Cecile and Maurice D'Albert were the orphan children of a French
+father and a Spanish mother. Somewhere in the famous valleys of the
+Pyrenees these two had loved each other, and married. Maurice
+D'Albert, the father, was a man of a respectable class and for that
+class of rather remarkable culture. He owned a small vineyard, and
+had a picturesque chateau, which he inherited from his ancestors,
+among the hills. Pretty Rosalie was without money. She had neither
+fortune nor education. She sprang from a lower class than her
+husband; but her young and childish face possessed so rare an order
+of beauty that it would be impossible for any man to ask her where
+she came from, or what she did. Maurice D'Albert loved her at once.
+He married her when she was little more than a child; and for four
+years the young couple lived happily among their native mountains;
+for Rosalie's home had been only as far away as the Spanish side of
+the Pyrenees.
+
+But at the end of four years clouds came. The vine did not bear; a
+blight seemed to rest on all vegetation of the prosperous little
+farm. D'Albert, for the first time in his life, was short of money
+for his simple needs. This was an anxiety; but worse troubles were to
+follow. Pretty Rosalie bore him a son; and then, when no one even
+apprehended danger, suddenly died. This death completely broke down
+the poor man. He had loved Rosalie so well that when she left him the
+sun seemed absolutely withdrawn from his life. He lived for many more
+years, but he never really held up his head again. Rosalie was gone!
+Even his children now could scarcely make him care for life. He began
+to hate the place where he had been so happy with his young wife. And
+when a distant cousin, who had long desired the little property, came
+and offered to buy it, D'Albert sold the home of his ancestors. The
+cousin gave him a small sum of money down for the pretty chateau and
+vineyard, and agreed to pay the rest in yearly instalments, extending
+over twelve years.
+
+With money in his purse, and secure in a small yearly property for
+at least some years to come, D'Albert came to England. He had been in
+London once for a fortnight, when quite a little lad; and it came
+into his head that the English children looked healthy and happy, and
+he thought it might give him pleasure to bring up his little son and
+daughter as English children. He took the baby of three months, and
+the girl of a little over two years, to England; and, in a poor and
+obscure corner of the great world of London, established himself with
+his babies. Poor man! the cold and damp English climate proved
+anything but the climate of his dreams. He caught one cold, then
+another, and after two or three years entered a period of confirmed
+ill-health, which was really to end in rapid consumption. His
+children, however, throve and grew strong. They both inherited their
+young mother's vigorous life. The English climate mattered nothing to
+them, for they remembered no other. They learned to speak the English
+tongue, and were English in all but their birth. When they were
+babies their father stayed at home, and nursed them as tenderly as
+any woman, allowing no hired nurse to interfere. But when they were
+old enough to be left, and that came before long, Cecile growing
+_so_ wise and sensible, so dependable, as her father said,
+D'Albert went out to look for employment.
+
+He was, as I have said, a man of some culture for his class. As he
+knew Spanish fluently, he obtained work at a school, as teacher, of
+Spanish, and afterward he further added to his little income by
+giving lessons on the guitar. The money too came in regularly from
+the French chateau, and D'Albert was able to put by, and keep his
+children in tolerable comfort.
+
+He never forgot his young wife. All the love he had to bestow upon
+woman lay in her Pyrenean grave. But nevertheless, when Cecile was
+six years old, and Maurice four, he asked another woman to be his
+wife. His home was neglected; his children, now that he was out so
+much all day, pined for more care. He married, but not loving his
+wife, he did not add to his happiness. The woman who came into the
+house came with a sore and broken heart. She brought no love for
+either father or children. All the love in her nature was centered on
+her own lost child. She came and gave no love, and received none,
+except from Cecile. Cecile loved everybody. There was that in the
+little half-French, half-Spanish girl's nature--a certain look in her
+long almond-shaped blue eyes, a melting look, which could only be
+caused by the warmth of a heart brimful of loving kindness. Woe be to
+anyone who could hurt the tender heart of this little one! Cecile's
+stepmother had often pained her, but Cecile still loved on.
+
+Two years after his second marriage D'Albert died. He died after a
+brief fresh cold, rather suddenly at the end, although he had been
+ill for years.
+
+To his wife he explained all his worldly affairs, He received fifty
+pounds a year from his farm in France. This would continue for the
+next few years. There was also a small sum in hand, enough for his
+funeral and present expenses. To Cecile he spoke of other things than
+money--of his early home in the sunny southern country, of her
+mother, of little Maurice. He said that perhaps some day Cecile could
+go back and take Maurice with her to see with her own eyes the sunny
+vineyards of the south, and he told her what the child had never
+learned before, that she had a grandmother living in the Pyrenees, a
+very old woman now, old and deaf, and knowing not a single word of
+the English tongue. "But with a loving heart, Cecile", added her
+father, "with a loving mother's heart. If ever you could find your
+grandmother, you would get a kiss from her that would be like a
+mother's kiss."
+
+Shortly after Maurice D'Albert died, and the children lived on with
+their stepmother. Without loving them, the second Mrs. D'Albert was
+good to her little stepchildren. She religiously spent all their
+father's small income on them, and when she died, she had so arranged
+money matters that her sister Lydia would be well paid with the fifty
+pounds a year for supporting them at her farm in the country.
+
+This fifty pounds still came regularly every half-year from the
+French farm. It would continue to be paid for the next four years,
+and the next half-year's allowance was about due when the children
+left London and went to the farm in Kent.
+
+The few days that immediately followed Mrs. D'Albert's death were
+dull and calm. No one loved the poor woman well enough to fret really
+for her. The child she had lost was far away and knew nothing, and
+Lydia Purcell shed few tears for her sister. True, Cecile cried a
+little, and went into the room where the dead woman lay, and kissed
+the cold lips, registering again, as she did so, a vow to find
+Lovedy, but even Cecile's loving heart was only stirred on the
+surface by this death. The little girl, too, was so oppressed, so
+overpowered by the care of the precious purse of money, she lived
+even already in such hourly dread of Aunt Lydia finding it, that she
+had no room in her mind for other sensations; there was no place in
+the lodgings in which they lived to hide the purse of bank notes and
+gold. Aunt Lydia seemed to be a woman who had eyes in the back of her
+head, she saw everything that anyone could see; she was here, there,
+and everywhere at once. Cecile dared not take the bag from inside the
+bosom of her frock, and its weight, physical as well as mental,
+brought added pallor to her thin cheeks. The kind young doctor, who
+had been good to Mrs. D'Albert, and had written to her sister to come
+to her, paid the children a hasty visit. He noticed at once Cecile's
+pale face and languid eyes.
+
+"This child is not well," he said to Lydia Purcell. "What is wrong,
+my little one?" he added, drawing the child forward tenderly to sit
+on his knee.
+
+"Please, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, "'tis only as father did
+say as I was a very dependable little girl. I think being dependable
+makes you feel a bit old--don't it, doctor?"
+
+"I have no doubt it does," answered the doctor, laughing. And he
+went away relieved about the funny, old-fashioned little foreign
+girl, and from that moment Cecile passed out of his busy and useful
+life.
+
+The next day the children, Toby, and Aunt Lydia went down to the
+farm in Kent. Neither Cecile, Maurice, nor their town-bred dog had
+ever seen the country, to remember it before, and it is not too much
+to say that all three went nearly wild with delight. Not even Aunt
+Lydia's sternness could quench the children's mirth when they got
+away into the fields, or scrambled over stiles into the woods.
+Beautiful Kent was then rich in its autumn tints. The children and
+dog lived out from morning to night. Provided they did not trouble
+her, Lydia Purcell was quite indifferent as to how the little
+creatures committed to her care passed their time. At Cecile's
+request she would give her some broken provisions in a basket, and
+then never see or think of the little trio again until, footsore and
+weary after their day of wandering, they crept into their attic
+bedroom at night.
+
+It was there and then, during those two delicious months, before the
+winter came with its cold and dreariness, that Cecile lost the look
+of care which had made her pretty face old before its time. She was a
+child again--rather she was a child at last. Oh! the joy of gathering
+real, real flowers with her own little brown hands. Oh! the delight
+of sitting under the hedges and listening to the birds singing.
+Maurice took it as a matter of course; Toby sniffed the country air
+solemnly, but with due and reasonable appreciation; but to Cecile
+these two months in the country came as the embodiment of the
+babyhood and childhood she had never known.
+
+In the country Cecile was only ten years old.
+
+When first they had arrived at the old farm she had discovered a
+hiding place for her purse. Back of the attic, were she had and
+Maurice and Toby slept, was a little chamber, so narrow--running so
+completely away into the roof--that even Cecile could only explore it
+on her hands and knees.
+
+This little room she did examine carefully, holding a candle in her
+hand, in the dead of night, when every soul on the busy farm was
+asleep.
+
+Woe for Cecile had Aunt Lydia heard a sound; but Aunt Lydia Purcell
+slept heavily, and the child's movements were so gentle and careful
+that they would scarcely have aroused a wakeful mouse. Cecile found
+in the extreme corner of this tiny attic in the roof an old broken
+wash-hand-stand lying on its back. In the wash-hand-stand was a
+drawer, and inside the drawer again a tidy little tin box. Cecile
+seized the box, sat down on the floor, and taking the purse from the
+bosom of her frock, found that it fitted it well. She gave a sigh of
+relief; the tin box shut with a click; who would guess that there was
+a purse of gold and notes inside!
+
+Now, where should she put it? Back again into the old drawer of the
+old wash-stand? No; that hiding place was not safe enough. She
+explored a little further, almost lying down now, the roof was so
+near her head. Here she found what she had little expected to see--a
+cupboard cunningly contrived in the wall. She pushed it open. It was
+full, but not quite full, of moldy and forgotten books. Back of the
+books the tin box might lie hidden, lie secure; no human being would
+ever guess that a treasure lay here.
+
+With trembling hands she pushed it far back into the cupboard,
+covered it with some books, and shut the door securely.
+
+Then she crept back to bed a light-hearted child. For the present
+her secret was safe and she might be happy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+MERCY BELL.
+
+
+The farm in Kent, called Warren's Grove, belonged to an old lady.
+This lady was very old; she was also deaf and nearly blind. She left
+the management of everything to Lydia Purcell, who, clever and
+capable, was well equal to the emergency. There was no steward or
+overseer of the little property, but the farm was thoroughly and
+efficiently worked. Lydia had been with Mrs. Bell for over twenty
+years. She was now trusted absolutely, and was to all intents and
+purposes the mistress of Warren's Grove. This had not been so when
+first she arrived; she had come at first as a sort of upper servant
+or nurse. The old lady was bright and active then. She had a son in
+Australia, and a bonnie grandchild to wake echoes in the old place
+and keep it alive. This grandchild was a girl of six, and Lydia was
+its nurse. For a year all went well; then the child, partly through
+Lydia's carelessness, caught a malignant fever, sickened, and died.
+Lydia had taken her into an infected house. This knowledge the woman
+kept to herself. She never told either doctor or grandmother--she
+dared not tell--and the grief, remorse, and pain changed her whole
+nature.
+
+Before the death of little Mercy Bell, Lydia had been an ordinary
+young woman. She had no special predisposition to evil. She was a
+handsome, bold-looking creature, and where she chose to give love,
+that love was returned. She had loved her pretty little charge, and
+the child had loved her and died in her arms. Mrs. Bell, too, had
+loved Lydia, and Lydia was bright and happy, and looked forward to a
+home of her own some day.
+
+But from the moment the grave had closed over Mercy, and she felt
+herself in a measure responsible for her death, all was changed in
+the woman. She did not leave her situation; she stayed on, she served
+faithfully, she worked hard, and her clever and well-timed services
+became more valuable day by day. But no one now loved Lydia, not even
+old Mrs. Bell, and certainly she loved nobody. Of course the natural
+consequences followed--the woman, loving neither God nor man, grew
+harder and harder. At forty-five, the age she was when the children
+came to Warren's Grove, she was a very hard woman indeed.
+
+It would be wrong, however, to say that she had _no_ love; she
+loved one thing--a base thing--she loved money. Lydia Purcell was
+saving money; in her heart she was a close miser.
+
+She was not, however, dishonest; she had never stolen a penny in her
+life, never yet. Every farthing of the gains which came in from the
+well-stocked and prosperous little farm she sent to the county bank,
+there to accumulate for that son in Australia, who, childless as he
+was, would one day return to find himself tolerably rich. But still
+Lydia, without being dishonest, saved money. When old Mrs. Bell, a
+couple of years after her grandchild's death, had a paralytic stroke,
+and begged of her faithful Lydia, her dear Lydia, not to leave her,
+but to stay and manage the farm which she must give up attending to,
+Lydia had made a good compact for herself.
+
+"I will stay with you, Mistress Bell," she had replied, addressing
+the old dame in the fashion she loved. "I will stay with you, and
+tend you, and work your farm, and you shall pay me my wages."
+
+"And good wages, Lydia--good wages they must be," replied the old
+lady.
+
+"They shall be fair wages," answered Lydia. "You shall give me a
+salary of fifty pounds a year, and I will have in the spring every
+tenth lamb, and every tenth calf, to sell for myself, and I will
+supply fowl and eggs for our own use at table, and all that are over
+I will sell on my own account."
+
+"That is fair--that is very fair," said Mrs. Bell.
+
+On these terms Lydia stayed and worked. She studied farming, and the
+little homestead throve and prospered. And Lydia too, without ever
+exceeding by the tenth of an inch her contract, managed to put by a
+tidy sum of money year by year. She spent next to nothing on dress;
+all her wants were supplied. Nearly her whole income, therefore, of
+fifty pounds a year could go by untouched; and the tenth of the
+flock, and the money made by the overplus of eggs and poultry, were
+by no means to be despised.
+
+Lydia was not dishonest, but she so far looked after her own
+interests as to see that the hen-houses were warm and snug, that the
+best breeds of poultry were kept up, and that those same birds should
+lay their golden eggs to the tune of a warm supper. Lydia, however,
+though very careful, was not always very wise. Once a quarter she
+regularly took her savings to the bank in the little town of F--t,
+and on one of these occasions she was tempted to invest one hundred
+pounds of her savings in a very risky speculation. Just about the
+time that the children were given into her charge this speculation
+was pronounced in danger, and Lydia, when she brought Cecile and
+Maurice home, was very anxious about her money.
+
+Now, if Mrs. D'Albert did not care for children, still less did
+Lydia Purcell. It was a strange fact that in both these sisters their
+affection for all such little ones should lie buried in a lost
+child's grave. It was true that, as far as she could tell, Mrs.
+D'Albert's love might be still alive. But little Mercy Bell's small
+grave in the churchyard contained the only child that Lydia Purcell
+could abide. That little grave was always green, and remained, summer
+and winter, not quite without flowers. But though she clung
+passionately to Mercy's memory, yet, because she had been unjust to
+this little one, she disliked all other children for her sake.
+
+It had been great pain and annoyance to Lydia to bring the orphan
+D'Alberts home, and she had only done so because of their money; for
+she reflected that they could live on the farm for next to nothing,
+and without in the least imagining herself dishonest, she considered
+that any penny she could save from their fifty pounds a year might be
+lawfully her own.
+
+Still the children were unpleasant to her, and she wished that her
+sister had not died so inopportunely.
+
+As the two children sat opposite to her in the fly, during their
+short drive from the country station to the farm, Lydia regarded them
+attentively.
+
+Maurice was an absolutely fearless child. No one in all his little
+life had ever said a cross word to Maurice, consequently he
+considered all the people in the world his slaves, and treated them
+with lofty indifference. He chattered as unreservedly to Lydia
+Purcell as he did to Cecile or Toby, and for Maurice in consequence
+Lydia felt no special dislike; his fearlessness made his charm. But
+Cecile was different. Cecile was unfortunate enough to win at once
+this disagreeable woman's antipathy. Cecile had timid and pleading
+eyes. Her eyes said plainly, "Let me love you."
+
+Now, Mercy's eyes too were pleading; Mercy's eyes too had said, "let
+me love you," Lydia saw the likeness between Mercy and Cecile at a
+glance, and she almost hated the little foreign girl for resembling
+her lost darling.
+
+Old Mrs. Bell further aggravated her dislike; she was so old and
+invalidish now that her memory sometimes failed.
+
+The morning after the children's arrival, she spoke to Lydia.
+
+"Lydia, that was Mercy's voice I heard just now in the passage."
+
+"Mercy is dead," answered Lydia, contracting her brows in pain.
+
+"But, Lydia, I _did_ hear her voice."
+
+"She is dead, Mistress Bell. That was another child."
+
+"Another child! Let me see the other child."
+
+Lydia was obliged to call in Cecile, who came forward with a sweet
+grave face, and stood gently by the little tremulous old woman, and
+took her hand, and then stooped down to kiss her.
+
+Cecile was interested in such great age, and kept saying to herself,
+"Perhaps my grandmother away in the Pyrenees is like this very old
+woman," and when Mrs. Bell warmly returned her soft little caress,
+Cecile wondered to herself if this was like the mother's kiss her
+father and told her of when he was dying.
+
+But when Cecile had gone away, Mrs. Bell turned to Lydia and said in
+a tone of satisfaction:
+
+"How much our dear Mercy has grown."
+
+After this nothing would ever get the idea out of the old lady's
+head that Cecile was Mercy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+A GUIDE TO THE PYRENEES.
+
+
+I have said, for the first two months of Cecile's life in the
+country she was a happy and light-hearted child. Her purse of money
+was safe for the present. Her promise lay in abeyance. Even her dead
+step-mother, anxious as she was to have Lovedy found, had counseled
+Cecile to delay her search until she was older. Cecile, therefore,
+might be happy. She might be indeed what she was--a child of ten.
+This happiness was not to last. Clouds were to darken the life of
+this little one; but before the clouds and darkness came, she was to
+possess a more solid happiness--a happiness that, once it found
+entrance into such a heart as hers, could never go away again.
+
+The first beginning of this happiness was to come to Cecile through
+an unexpected source--even through the ministrations of an old,
+partly blind, and half-simple woman.
+
+Mrs. Bell from the first took a fancy to Cecile, and liked to have
+her about her. She called her Mercy, and Cecile grew accustomed to
+the name and answered to it. This delusion on the part of poor old
+Mrs. Bell was great torture to Lydia Purcell, and when the child and
+the old woman were together she always left them alone.
+
+One afternoon Mrs. Bell said abruptly:
+
+"Mercy, I thought--or was it a dream?--I thought you were safe away
+with Jesus for the last few years."
+
+"No, Mistress Bell," answered Cecile in her slow and grave tones,
+"I've only been in London these last few years."
+
+"Now you're puzzling me," said Mrs. Bell in a querulous voice, "and
+you know I hate being puzzled. Lydia Purcell, too, often puzzles me
+lately, but you, Mercy, never used to. Sit down, child, and stitch at
+your sampler, and I'll get accustomed to the sight of you, and not
+believe that you've been away with my blessed Master, as I used to
+dream."
+
+"Is your blessed Master the same as Jesus that you thought I had
+gone to live with?" asked Cecile, as she pulled out the faded sampler
+and tried to work the stitches.
+
+"Yes, my darling, He's my light and my stay, the sure guide of a
+poor old woman to a better country, blessed be His holy Name!"
+
+"A guide!" said Cecile. This name attracted her--a guide would be
+so useful by and by when she went into a foreign land to look for
+Lovedy. "Do you think as He'd guide me too, Mistress Bell?"
+
+"For sure, deary, for sure. Don't He call a little thing like you
+one of His lambs? 'Tis said of Him that He carries the lambs in His
+arms. That's a very safe way of being guided, ain't it, Mercy?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am. Only I hope as He'll take you in His arms too, Mistress
+Bell, for you don't look as though you could walk far. And will He
+come soon, Mistress?"
+
+"I don't say as 'twill be long, Mercy. I'm very old and very feeble,
+and He don't ever leave the very old and feeble long down here."
+
+"And is the better country that the blessed Master has to guide you
+to, away in France, away in the south of France, in the Pyrenees?"
+asked Cecile with great excitement and eagerness.
+
+But Mrs. Bell had never even heard of the Pyrenees. She shook her
+old head and frowned.
+
+"Tis called the Celestial City by some," she said, "and by some
+again the New Jerusalem, but I never yet heard anyone speak of it by
+that other outlandish name. Now you're beginning your old game of
+puzzling, Mercy Bell."
+
+Cecile bent over her work, and old Mrs. Bell dozed off to sleep.
+
+But the words the old woman had spoken were with Cecile when later
+in the day she went out to play with Maurice and Toby; were with her
+when she lay down to sleep that night. What a pity Jesus only guided
+people to the Celestial City and to the New Jerusalem! What a pity
+that, as He was so very good, He did not do more! What a pity that He
+could not be induced to take a little girl who was very young, and
+very ignorant, but who had a great care and anxiety on her mind, into
+France, even as far as, if necessary, to the south of France! Cecile
+wondered if He could be induced to do it. Perhaps old Mrs. Bell, who
+knew Him so well, would ask Him. Cecile guessed that Jesus must have
+a very kind heart. For what did that girl say who once sat upon a
+doorstep, and sang about him?
+
+  "I am so glad Jesus loves even me."
+
+That girl was as poor as Cecile herself. Nay, indeed, she was much
+poorer. How white was her thin face, how ragged her shabby gown! But
+then, again, how triumphant was her voice as she sang! What a happy
+light filled her sunken eyes!
+
+There was no doubt at all that Jesus loved this poor girl; and if He
+loved her, why might He not love Cecile too? Yes, He surely had a
+great and loving heart, capable of taking in everybody; for Cecile's
+stepmother, though she was not _very_ nice, had smiled when that
+little story of the poor girl on the doorstep had been told to her;
+had smiled and seemed comforted, and had repeated the words, "Jesus
+loves even me," softly over to herself when she was dying.
+
+Cecile, too, now looking back over many things, remembered her own
+father. Cecile's father, Maurice D'Albert, was a Roman Catholic by
+birth. He was a man, however, out of whose life religion had slipped.
+
+During his wife's lifetime, and while he lived on his little farm in
+the Pyrenees, he had done as his neighbors did, gone to confession,
+and professed himself a good Catholic; but when trouble came to him,
+and he found his home in the bleaker land of England, there was found
+to be no heart in his worship. He was an amiable, kind-hearted man,
+but he forgot the religious part of life. He went neither to church
+nor chapel, and he brought up his children like himself, practically
+little heathens. Cecile, therefore, at ten years old was more
+ignorant than it would be possible to find a respectable English
+child. God, and heaven, and the blessed hope of a future life were
+things practically unknown to her.
+
+What fragmentary ideas she had gleaned in her wanderings about the
+great city with her little brother were vague and unformed. But even
+Cecile, thinking now of her father's deathbed, remembered words which
+she had little thought of at the time.
+
+Just before he breathed his last, he had raised two feeble hands,
+and placed one on her head, and one on Maurice's, and said in a
+faltering, failing voice:
+
+"If the blessed and adorable Jesus be God, may He guide you, my
+children."
+
+These were his last words, and Cecile, lying on her little bed
+to-night, remembered them vividly.
+
+Who was this Jesus who was so loving, and who was so willing to
+guide people? She must learn more about Him, for if _He_ only
+promised to go with her into France, then her heart might be light,
+her fears as to the success of her great mission might be laid to rest.
+
+Cecile resolved to find out all she could about Jesus from old Mrs.
+Bell.
+
+The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Aunt Lydia called the
+little girl aside, and gave her as usual a basket of broken provisions.
+
+"There is a good piece of apple-tart in the basket this morning,
+Cecile, and a bottle of fresh milk. Don't any of you three come
+worriting me again before nightfall; there, run away quickly, child,
+for I'm dreadful busy and put out to-day."
+
+For a brief moment Cecile looked eagerly and pityingly into the hard
+face. There was love in her gentle eyes, and, as they filled with
+love, they grew so like Mercy's eyes that Lydia Purcell almost
+loathed her. She gave her a little push away, and said sharply:
+
+"Get away, get away, do," and turned her back, pretending to busy
+herself over some cold meat.
+
+Cecile went slowly and sought Maurice. She knew there would be no
+dinner in store for her that day. But what was dinner compared to the
+knowledge she hoped to gain!
+
+"Maurice, dear," she said, as she put the basket into his hand,
+"this is a real lovely day, and you and Toby are to spend it in the
+woods, and I'll come presently if I can. And you might leave a little
+bit of dinner if you're not very hungry, Maurice. There's lovely
+apple-pie in the basket, and there's milk, but a bit of bread will do
+for me. Try and leave a little bit of bread for me when I come."
+Maurice nodded, his face beaming at the thought of the apple-pie and
+the milk. But Toby's brown eyes said intelligently:
+
+"We'll keep a little bit of _every_thing for you, Cecile, and
+I'll take care of Maurice." And Cecile, comforted that Toby would
+take excellent care of Maurice, ran away into old Mrs. Bell's room.
+
+"May I sit with you, and may I do a little bit more of Mercy's
+sampler, please, Mistress Bell?" she asked.
+
+The old lady, who was propped up in the armchair in the sunshine,
+received her in her usual half-puzzled half-pleased way.
+
+"There, Mercy, child, you've grown so queer in your talk that I
+sometimes fancy you're half a changeling. May you sit with your
+grandam? What next? There, there, bring yer bit of a stool, and get
+the sampler out, and do a portion of the feather-stitch. Mind ye're
+careful, Mercy, and see as you count as you work."
+
+Cecile sat down willingly, drew out the faded sampler, and made
+valiant efforts to follow in the dead Mercy's finger marks. After a
+moment or two of careful industry, she laid down her work and spoke:
+
+"Mistress Bell, when 'ull you be likely to see Jesus next, do you
+think?"
+
+"Lawk a mercy, child! ain't you near enough to take one's breath
+away. Do you want to kill your old grandam, Mercy? Why, in course I
+can't see my blessed Saviour, the Lord Jesus, till I'm dead."
+
+"Oh!" said Cecile, with a heavy sigh, "I did think as He lived down
+yere, and that He came in and out to see you sometimes, seeing as you
+love Him so. You said as He was a guide. How can He be a guide when
+He's dead?"
+
+"A guide to the New Jerusalem and the Celestial City," murmured old
+Mrs. Bell, beginning to wander a little. "Yes, yes, my blessed Lord
+and faithful and sure guide."
+
+"But how can He be a guide when He's dead?" questioned Cecile.
+
+"Mercy, child, put in another feather in yer sampler, and don't
+worry an old woman. The Lord Jesus ain't dead--no, no; He died once,
+but He rose--He's alive for evermore. Don't you ask no strange
+questions, Mercy, child."
+
+"Oh! but I must--I must," answered Cecile, now grown desperate. She
+threw her sampler on the floor, rose to her feet, and confronted the
+old woman with her eyes full of tears. "Whether I'm Mercy or not
+don't matter, but I'm a very, very careworn little girl--I'm a little
+girl with a deal, a great deal of care on my mind--and I want Jesus
+most terrible bad to help me. Mistress Bell, dear Mistress Bell, when
+you die and see Jesus, won't you ask Him, won't you be certain sure
+to ask Him to guide me too?"
+
+"Why, my darling, He's sure to guide you. There ain't no fear, my
+dear life. He's sure, sure to take my Mercy, too, to the Celestial
+City when the right time comes."
+
+"But I don't want Him to take me to the Celestial City. I haven't
+got to look for nobody in the Celestial City. 'Tis away to France,
+down into the south of France I've got to go. Will you ask Jesus to
+come and guide me down into the Pyrenees in the south of France,
+please, Mistress Bell?"
+
+"I don't know nothing of no such outlandish place," said old Mrs.
+Bell, once more irritated and thrown off her bearings, and just at
+this moment, to Cecile's serious detriment, Lydia Purcell entered.
+
+Lydia was in one of her worst tempers, and old Mrs. Bell, rendered
+cross for the moment, spoke unadvisedly:
+
+"Lydia, I do think you're bringing up the child Mercy like a regular
+heathen. She asks me questions as 'ud break her poor father, my son
+Robert's heart ef he was to hear. She's a good child, but she's
+_that_ puzzling. You bid her mind her sampler, and not worry an
+old woman, Lydia Purcell."
+
+Lydia's eyes gazed stormily at Cecile.
+
+"I'll bid her see and do what she's told," she said, going up to the
+little girl and giving her a shake. "You go out of the house this
+minute, miss, and don't let me never see you slinking into this yere
+room again without my leave." She took the child to the door and shut
+it on her.
+
+Mrs. Bell began to remonstrate feebly. "Lydia, don't be harsh on my
+little Mercy," she began. "I like to have her along o' me. I'm mostly
+alone, and the child makes company."
+
+"Yes, but you have no time for her this morning, for, as I've told
+you a score of times already to-day, Mr. Preston is coming," replied
+Lydia.
+
+Now Mr. Preston was Mrs. Bell's attorney, and next to her religion,
+which was most truly real and abiding in her poor old heart, she
+loved her attorney.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+"THE UNION."
+
+
+Lydia had just then plenty of cause for anxiety; for that kind of
+anxiety which such a woman would feel. She was anxious about the gold
+she had been so carefully saving, putting by here a pound and there a
+pound, until the bank held a goodly sum sufficient to support her in
+comfort in the not very distant day when her residence in Warren's
+Grove would come to an end.
+
+Whenever Mrs. Bell died, Lydia knew she must look out for a fresh
+home, and that day could surely now not be very distant.
+
+The old woman had seen her eighty-fifth birthday. Death must be near
+one so feeble, who was also eighty-five years of age. Lydia would be
+comfortably off when Mrs. Bell died, and she often reflected with
+satisfaction that this money, as she enjoyed it, need trouble her
+with no qualms of conscience--it was all the result of hard work, of
+patient industry. In her position she could have been dishonest, and
+it would be untrue to deny that the temptation to be dishonest when
+no one would be the wiser, when not a soul could possibly ever know,
+had come to her more than once. But she had never yet yielded to the
+temptation. "No, no," she had said to her own heart, "I will enjoy my
+money by and by with clean hands. It shall be good money. I'm a hard
+woman, but nothing mean nor unclean shall touch me." Lydia made these
+resolves most often sitting by Mercy's grave. For week after week did
+she visit this little grave, and kept it bright with flowers and
+green with all the love her heart could ever know.
+
+But all the same it was about this money which surely she had a
+right to enjoy, and feel secure and happy in possessing, that Lydia
+was so anxious now.
+
+She had ground for her fears. As I said before Lydia Purcell had
+once done a foolish thing. Now her folly was coming home to her. She
+had been tempted to invest two hundred pounds in an unlimited
+company. Twenty per cent. she was to receive for this money. This
+twenty per cent. tempted her. She did the deed, thinking that for a
+year or two she was safe enough.
+
+But this very morning she had been made uneasy by a letter from Mr.
+Preston, her own and Mrs. Bell's man of business.
+
+He knew she had invested this money. She had done so against his will.
+
+He told her that ugly rumors were afloat about this very company.
+And if it went, all Lydia's money, all the savings of her life would
+be swept away in its downfall.
+
+When he called, which he did that same morning, he could but confirm
+her fears.
+
+Yes, he would try and sell out for her. He would go to London for
+the purpose that very day.
+
+Lydia, anxious about her golden calf, the one idol of her life, was
+not a pleasant mistress of the farm. She was never particularly kind
+to the children; but now, for the next few days, she was rough and
+hard to everyone who came within her reach.
+
+The dairymaid and the cook received sharp words, which, fortunately
+for themselves, they were powerful enough to return with interest.
+Poor old Mrs. Bell cowered lonely and sad by her fireside. Now and
+then she asked querulously for Mercy, but no Mercy, real or
+imaginary, ever came near her; and then her old mind would wander off
+from the land of Beulah, where she really lived, right across to the
+Celestial City at the other side of the river. Mrs. Bell was too old
+and too serene to be rendered really unhappy by Lydia's harsh ways!
+Her feet were already on the margin of the river, and earth's
+discords had scarcely power to touch her.
+
+But those who did suffer, and suffer most from Lydia's bad temper,
+were the children.
+
+They were afraid to stay in her presence. The weather had suddenly
+turned cold, wet, and wintry. Cecile dared not take Maurice out into
+the sleet showers which were falling about every ten minutes. All the
+bright and genial weather had departed. Their happy days in the woods
+and fields were over, and there was nothing for them but to spend the
+whole day in their attic bedroom. Here the wind howled fiercely. The
+badly-fitting window in the roof not only shook, but let in plenty of
+rain. And Maurice cried from cold and fright. In his London home he
+had never undergone any real roughing. He wanted a fire, and begged
+of Cecile to light one; and when she refused, the little spoiled
+unhappy boy nearly wept himself sick. Cecile looked at Toby, and
+shook her head despondingly, and Toby answered her with more than one
+blink from his wise and solemn eyes.
+
+Neither Cecile nor Toby would have fretted about the cold and
+discomfort for themselves, but both their hearts ached for Maurice.
+
+One day the little boy seemed really ill. He had caught a severe
+cold, and he shivered, and crouched up now in Cecile's arms with
+flushed cheeks. His little hands and feet, however, were icy cold.
+How Cecile longed to take him down to Mrs. Bell's warm room. But she
+was strictly forbidden to go near the old lady.
+
+At last, rendered desperate, she ventured to do for Maurice what
+nothing would have induced her to do for herself. She went
+downstairs, poked about until she found Lydia Purcell, and then in a
+trembling voice begged from her a few sticks and a little coal to
+build a fire in the attic bedroom.
+
+Lydia stared at the request, then she refused it.
+
+"That grate would not burn a fire even if you were to light it," she
+said partly in excuse.
+
+"But Maurice is so cold. I think he is ill from cold, and you don't
+like us to stay in the kitchen," pleaded the anxious little sister.
+
+"No, I certainly can't have children pottering about in my way
+here," replied Lydia Purcell. "And do you know, Cecile--for if you
+don't 'tis right you should--all that money I was promised for the
+care of you and your brother, and the odious dog, has never come. You
+have been living on me for near three months now, and not a blessed
+sixpence have I had for my trouble. That uncle, or cousin, or whoever
+he is, in France, has not taken the slightest notice of my letter.
+There's a nice state of things--and you having the impudence to ask
+for a fire up in yer very bedroom. What next, I wonder?"
+
+"I can't think why the money hasn't come," answered Cecile,
+puckering her brows; "that money from France always did come to the
+day--always exactly to the day, it never failed. Father used to say
+our cousin who had bought his vineyard and farm was reliable. I can't
+think, indeed, why the money is not here long ago, Mrs. Purcell."
+
+"Well, it han't come, child, and I have got Mr. Preston to write
+about it, and if he don't have an answer soon and a check into the
+bargain, out you and Maurice will have to go. I'm a poor woman
+myself, and I can't afford to keep no beggar brats. That'll be worse
+nor a fire in your bedroom, I guess, Cecile."
+
+"If the money don't come, where'll you send us, Mrs. Purcell,
+please?" asked Cecile, her face very pale.
+
+"Oh! 'tis easy to know where, child--to the Union, of course."
+
+Cecile had never heard of the Union.
+
+"Is it far away? and is it a nice place?" she asked innocently.
+
+Lydia laughed and held up her hands.
+
+"Of all the babies, Cecile D'Albert, you beat them hallow," she
+said. "No, no, I'll tell you nothing about the Union. You wait till
+you see it. You're so queer, maybe you'll like it. There's no saying
+--and Maurice'll get his share of the fire. Oh, yes, he'll get his
+share."
+
+"And Toby! Will Toby come too?" asked Cecile.
+
+"Toby! bless you, no. There's a yard of rope for Toby. He'll be
+managed cheaper than any of you. Now go, child, go!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+"THE ADVENT OF THE GUIDE."
+
+
+Cecile crept upstairs again very, very slowly, and sat down by
+Maurice's side.
+
+"Maurice, dear," she said to her little brother, "I ha' no good
+news for you. Aunt Lydia won't allow no fire, and you must just get
+right into bed, and I'll lie down and put my arms round you, and Toby
+shall lie at your feet. You'll soon be warm then, and maybe if you're
+a very good boy, and don't cry, I'll make up a little fairy tale for
+you, Maurice."
+
+But Maurice was sick and very miserable, and he was in no humor even
+to be comforted by what at most times he considered the nicest treat
+in the world--a story made up by Cecile.
+
+"I hate Aunt Lydia Purcell," he said; "I hate her, Cecile."
+
+"Oh, don't! Maurice, darling. Father often said it was wrong to hate
+anyone, and maybe Aunt Lydia does find us very expensive. Do you
+know, Maurice, she told me just now that our cousin in France has
+never sent her any money all this time? And you know how reliable our
+cousin always was; and Aunt Lydia says if the money does not come
+soon, she will send us away, quite away to another home. We are to go
+to a place called 'The Union.' She says it is not very far away, and
+that it won't be a bad home. At least, you will have a fire to warm
+yourself by there, Maurice."
+
+"Oh!" said Maurice excitedly, "don't you _hope_ our cousin in
+France won't send the money, Cecile? Couldn't you write, or get
+someone to write to him, telling him not to send the money?"
+
+"I don't know writing well enough to put it in a letter, Maurice,
+and, besides, it would not be fair to Aunt Lydia, after her having
+such expense with us all these months. Don't you remember that
+delicious apple pie, Maurice, and the red, red apples to eat with
+bread in the fields? 'Tis only the last few days Aunt Lydia has got
+really unkind, and perhaps we are very expensive little children.
+Besides, Maurice, darling, I did not like to tell you at first, but
+there is one dreadful, dreadful thing about the Union. However nice a
+home it might be for you and me, we could not take Toby with us,
+Maurice. Aunt Lydia said Toby would not be taken in."
+
+"Then what would become of our dog?" asked Maurice, opening his
+velvety brown eyes very wide.
+
+"Ah! that I don't understand. Aunt Lydia just laughed, and said Toby
+should have a yard of rope, and 'twould be cheaper than the Union. I
+can't in the least find out what she meant."
+
+But here Maurice got very red, so red, down below his chin, and into
+his neck, and even up to the roots of his hair, that Cecile gazed at
+him in alarm, and feared he had been taken seriously ill.
+
+"Oh, Cecile!" he gasped. "Oh! oh! oh!" and here he buried his head
+on his sister's breast.
+
+"What is it, Maurice? Maurice, speak to me," implored his sister.
+"Maurice, are very ill? Do speak to me, darling?"
+
+"No, Cecile, I'm not ill," said the little boy, when he could find
+voice after his agitation. "But, oh! Cecile, you must never be angry
+with me for hating Aunt Lydia again. Cecile, Aunt Lydia is the
+dreadfullest woman in all the world. _Do_ you know what she
+meant by a yard of rope?"
+
+"No, Maurice; tell me," asked Cecile, her face growing white.
+
+"It means, Cecile, that our dog--our darling, darling Toby--is to be
+hung, hung till he dies. Our Toby is to be murdered, Cecile, and Aunt
+Lydia is to be his murderer. That's what it means."
+
+"But, Maurice, how do you know? Maurice, how can you tell?"
+
+"It was last week," continued the little boy, "last week, the day
+you would not come out, Toby and me were in the wood, and we came on
+a dog hanging to one of the trees by a bit of rope, and the poor dog
+was dead, and a big boy stood by. Toby howled when he saw the dog,
+and the big boy laughed; and I said to him, 'What is the matter with
+the poor dog?' And the dreadful boy laughed again, Cecile, and he
+said, 'I've been giving him a yard of rope.'
+
+"And I said, 'But he's dead.'
+
+"And the boy said, 'Yes, that was what I gave it him for.' That boy
+was a murderer, and I would not stay in the wood all day, and that is
+what Aunt Lydia will be; and I hate Aunt Lydia, so I do."
+
+Here Maurice went into almost hysterical crying, and Cecile and Toby
+had both as much as they could do for the next half hour to comfort
+him.
+
+When he was better, and had been persuaded to get into bed, Cecile
+said:
+
+"Me and you need not fret about Toby, Maurice, for our Toby shan't
+suffer. We won't go into no Union wherever it is, and if the money
+don't come from France, why, we'll run away, me and you and Toby."
+
+"We'll run away," responded Maurice with a smile, and sleepy after
+his crying fit, and comforted by the warmth of his little bed, he
+closed his eyes and dropped asleep. His baby mind was quite happy
+now, for what could be simpler than running away?
+
+Cecile sat on by her little brother's side, and Toby jumped into her
+lap. Toby had gone through a half hour of much pain. He had witnessed
+Maurice's tears, Cecile's pale face, and had several times heard his
+own name mentioned. He was too wise a dog not to know that the
+children were talking about some possible fate for him, and, by their
+tones and great distress, he guessed that the fate was not a pleasant
+one. He had his anxious moments during that half hour. But when
+Maurice dropped asleep and Cecile sat droopingly by his side,
+instantly this noble-natured mongrel dog forgot himself. His mission
+was to comfort the child he loved. He jumped on Cecile's lap, thereby
+warming her. He licked her face and hands, he looked into her eyes,
+his own bright and moist with a great wealth of canine love.
+
+"Oh, Toby," said the little girl, holding him very tight, "Toby! I'd
+rather have a yard of rope myself than that you should suffer."
+
+Toby looked as much as to say:
+
+"Pooh, that's a trivial matter, don't let's think of it," and then
+he licked her hands again.
+
+Cecile began to wonder if it would not be better for them not to
+wait for that letter from France. There was no saying, now that Aunt
+Lydia was really proved to be a wicked woman, what she might do, if
+they gave her time after the letter arrived. Would it not be best for
+Cecile, Maurice, and Toby to set off at once on that mission into
+France? Would it not be wisest, young as Cecile was, to begin the
+great search for Lovedy without delay? The little girl thought she
+had better secure her purse of money, and set off at once. But oh!
+she was so ignorant, so ignorant, and so young. Should she, Maurice,
+and Toby go east, west, north, or south? She had a journey before
+her, and she did not know a step of the way.
+
+"Oh, Toby," she said again to the watchful dog, "if only I had a
+guide. I do want a guide so dreadfully. And there is a guide called
+Jesus, and He loves everybody, and He guides people and little
+children, and perhaps dogs like you, Toby, right across to the New
+Jerusalem and the Celestial City. But I want Him to guide us into the
+south of France. He's so kind He would take us into his arms when we
+were tired and rest us. You and me, Toby, are strong, but Maurice is
+only a baby. If Jesus would guide us, He would take Maurice into His
+arms now and then. But Mistress Bell says she never heard of Jesus
+guiding anybody into the south of France, into the Pyrenees. Oh, how
+I wish He would!"
+
+"Yes," answered Toby, by means of his expressive eyes, and wagging
+his stumpy tail, "I wish He would."
+
+That night when Cecile and Maurice were asleep, and all the house
+was still, a messenger of kingly aspect came to the old farm.
+
+Had Cecile opened her eyes then, and had she been endowed with power
+to tear away the slight film which hides immortal things from our
+view, she would have seen the Guide she longed for. For Jesus came
+down, and in her sleep took Mrs. Bell across the river. Without a
+pang the old pilgrim entered into rest, and no one knew in that
+slumbering household the moment she went home.
+
+But I think--it may be but a fancy of mine--still I think Jesus did
+more. I think He went up still higher in that old farmhouse. I think
+He entered an attic bedroom and bent over two sleeping children, and
+smiled on them, and blessed them, and said to the anxious heart of
+one, "Certainly I will be with thee. I will guide My little lamb
+every step of the way."
+
+For Cecile looked so happy in her childish slumbers. Every trace of
+care had left her brow. The burden of responsibility was gone from
+her heart.
+
+I think, before He left the room, Jesus stooped down and gave her a
+kiss of peace.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+"TOPSY-TURVY."
+
+
+It may have seemed a strange thing, but, nevertheless, it was a
+fact, that one who appeared to make no difference to anybody while
+she was alive should yet be capable of causing quite a commotion the
+moment she was dead.
+
+This was the case with old Mrs. Bell. For years she had lived in her
+pleasant south room, basking in the sun in summer, and half sleeping
+by the fire in winter. She never read; she spoke very little; she did
+not even knit, and never, by any chance, did she stir outside those
+four walls. She was in a living tomb, and was forgotten there. The
+four walls of her room were her grave. Lydia Purcell, to all intents
+and purposes, was mistress of all she surveyed.
+
+But from the moment it was discovered that Mrs. Bell was dead--from
+the moment it was known that the time had come to shut her up in four
+much smaller walls--the aspect of everything was changed. She was no
+longer a person of no importance.
+
+No importance! Her name was in everybody's mouth. The servants
+talked of her. The villagers whispered, and came and asked to look at
+her; and then they commented on the peaceful old face, and one or two
+shed tears and inwardly breathed a prayer that their last end might
+be like hers.
+
+The house was full of subdued bustle and decorous excitement; and
+all the bustle and all the excitement were caused by Mrs. Bell.
+
+Mrs. Bell, who spent her days from morning to night alone while she
+was living, who had even died alone! It was only after death she
+seemed worth consideration.
+
+Between the day of death and the funeral, Mr. Preston, the lawyer,
+came over to Warren's Grove many times. He was always shut up with
+Lydia Purcell when he came, though, had anyone listened to their
+conversation, they would have found that Mrs. Bell was the subject of
+their discourse.
+
+But the strange thing, the strangest thing about it all, was that
+Lydia Purcell and Mrs. Bell, from the moment Mrs. Bell was dead,
+appeared to have changed places. Lydia, from ruling all, and being
+feared by all, was now the person of no account. The cook defied her;
+the dairymaid openly disobeyed her in some important matter relating
+to the cream; and the boy whose business it was to attend to Lydia's
+own precious poultry, not only forgot to give them their accustomed
+hot supper, but openly recorded his forgetfulness over high tea in
+the kitchen that same evening; and the strange thing was that Lydia
+looked on, and did not say a word. She did not say a word or blame
+anybody, though her face was very pale, and she looked anxious.
+
+The children noticed the changed aspect of things, and commented
+upon them in the way children will. To Maurice it was all specially
+surprising, as he had scarcely been aware of Mrs. Bell's existence
+during her lifetime.
+
+"It must be a good thing to be dead, Cecile," he said to his little
+sister, "people are very kind to you after you are dead, Cecile. Do
+you think Aunt Lydia Purcell would give me a fire in our room after
+I'm dead?"
+
+"Oh, Maurice! don't," entreated Cecile, "you are only a little baby
+boy, and you don't understand."
+
+"But I understood about the yard of rope," retorted Maurice slyly.
+
+Yes, Cecile owned that Maurice had been very clever in that respect,
+and she kissed him, and told him so, and then, taking his hand, they
+ran out.
+
+The weather was again fine, the short spell of cold had departed,
+and the children could partly at least resume their old life in the
+woods. They had plenty to eat, and a certain feeling of liberty which
+everyone in the place shared. The cook, who liked them and pitied
+them, supplied them with plenty of cakes and apples, and the
+dairymaid treated Maurice to more than one delicious drink of cream.
+
+Maurice became a thoroughly happy and contented little boy again,
+and he often remarked to himself, but for the benefit of Cecile and
+Toby, what a truly good thing it was that Mrs. Bell had died. Nay, he
+was even heard to say that he wished someone could be always found
+ready to die, and so make things pleasant in a house.
+
+Cecile, however, looked at matters differently. To her Mrs. Bell's
+death was a source of pain, for now there was no one at all left to
+tell her how to find the guide she needed. Perhaps, however, Mrs.
+Bell would talk to Jesus about it, for she was to see Jesus after she
+was dead.
+
+Cecile used to wonder where the old woman had gone, and if she had
+found the real Mercy at last.
+
+One day, as Jane, the cook, was filling the children's little
+basket, Cecile said to her:
+
+"Has old Mrs. Bell gone into the Celestial City?"
+
+"No, no, my dear, into heaven," replied the cook; "the blessed old
+lady has gone into heaven, dear."
+
+Cecile sighed. "She always _spoke_ about going to the Celestial
+City and the New Jerusalem," she said.
+
+Now the dairymaid, who happened to be a Methodist, stood near. She
+now came forward.
+
+"Ain't heaven and the New Jerusalem jest one and the same, Jane
+Parsons? What's the use of puzzling a child like that? Yes, Miss
+Cecile, honey, the old lady is in heaven, or the New Jerusalem, or
+the Celestial City, which you like to call it. They all means the
+same."
+
+Cecile thanked the dairymaid and walked away. She was a little
+comforted by this explanation, and a tiny gleam of light was entering
+her mind. Still she was very far from the truth.
+
+The halcyon days between Mrs. Bell's death and her funeral passed
+all too quickly. Then came the day of the funeral, and the next
+morning the iron rule of Lydia Purcell began again. Whatever few
+words she said to cook, dairymaid, and message-boy, they once more
+obeyed her and showed her respect. And there was no more cream for
+Maurice, nor special dainties for the little picnic basket. That same
+day, too, Lydia and Mr. Preston had a long conversation.
+
+"It is settled then," said the lawyer, "and you stay on here and
+manage everything on the old footing until we hear from Mr. Bell. I
+have telegraphed, but he is not likely to reply except by letter. You
+may reckon yourself safe not to be disturbed out of your present snug
+quarters for the winter."
+
+"And hard I must save," said Lydia; "I have but beggary to face when
+I'm turned out."
+
+"Some of your money will be secured," replied the lawyer. "I can
+promise you at least three hundred."
+
+"What is three hundred to live on?"
+
+"You can save again. You are still a young woman."
+
+"I am forty-five," replied Lydia Purcell. "At forty-five you don't
+feel as you do at twenty-five. Yes, I can save; but somehow there's
+no spirit in it."
+
+"I am sorry for you," replied the lawyer. Then he added, "And the
+children--the children can remain here as long as you stay."
+
+But at the mention of the children, the momentary expression of
+softness, which had made Lydia's face almost pleasing, vanished.
+
+"Mr. Preston," she said, rising, "I will keep those children, who
+are no relations to me, until I get a letter from France. If a check
+comes with the letter, well and good; if not, out they go--out they
+go that minute, sure as my name is Lydia Purcell. What call has a
+Frenchman's children on me?"
+
+"Where are they to go?" asked Mr. Preston.
+
+"To the workhouse, of course. What is the workhouse for but to
+receive such beggar brats?"
+
+"Well, I am sorry for them," said the lawyer, now also rising and
+buttoning on his coat. "They don't look fit for such a life; they
+look above so dismal a fate. Poor little ones! That boy is very
+handsome, and the girl, her eyes makes you think of a startled fawn.
+Well, good-day, Mrs. Purcell. I trust there will be good news from
+France."
+
+Just on the boundary of the farm Mr. Preston met Maurice. Some
+impulse, for he was not a softhearted man himself, made him stop,
+call the pretty boy to his side, and give him half a sovereign.
+
+"Ask your sister to take care of it for you, and keep it, both of
+you, my poor babes, for a rainy day."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+A MONTH TO PREPARE.
+
+
+Mr. Preston's visits were now supposed to have ceased. But the next
+afternoon, when Lydia was busy in the dairy, he came again to the farm.
+
+He came now with both important and unpleasant tidings.
+
+The heir in Australia had telegraphed: "He was not coming back to
+England. Everything was to be sold; farm and all belongings to it
+were to be got rid of as quickly as possible."
+
+Lydia clasped her hands in dismay at these tidings. No time for any
+more saving, no time for any more soft living, for the new owners of
+Warren's Grove would be very unlikely to need her services.
+
+"And there is another thing, Mrs. Purcell," continued the lawyer,
+"which I confess grieves me even more than this. I have heard from
+France. I had a letter this morning."
+
+"There was no check in it, I warrant," said Lydia.
+
+"No, I am sorry to tell you there was no check in it. The children's
+cousin in France refuses to pay any more money to them. He says their
+father is dead, and the children have no claim; besides, the vineyard
+has been doing badly the last two years, and he considers that he has
+given quite enough for it already; in short, he refuses to allow
+another penny to these poor little orphans."
+
+"But my sister Grace, the children's stepmother, said there was a
+regular deed for this money," said Lydia. "She had it, and I believe
+it is in an old box of hers upstairs. If there is a deed, could not
+the man be forced to pay, Mr. Preston?"
+
+"We could go to law with him, certainly; but the difficulty of a
+lawsuit between a Frenchman and an English court would be immense;
+the issue would be doubtful, and the sum not worth the risk. The man
+owes four fifties, that is two hundred pounds; the whole of that sum
+would be expended on the lawsuit. No; I fear we shall gain nothing by
+that plan."
+
+"Well, of course I am sorry for the children," said Lydia Purcell,
+"but it is nothing to me. I must take steps to get them into the
+workhouse at once; as it is, I have been at considerable loss by them."
+
+"Mrs. Purcell, believe me, that loss you will never feel; it will be
+something to your credit at the right side of the balance some day.
+And now tell me how much the support of the little ones costs you
+here."
+
+Lydia considered, resting her chin thoughtfully on her hand.
+
+"They have the run of the place," she said. "In a big place like
+this 'tis impossible, however careful you may be, not to have odds
+and ends and a little waste; the children eat up the odds and ends.
+Yes; I suppose they could be kept here for five shillings a week each."
+
+"That is half a sovereign between them. Mrs. Purcell, you are sure
+to remain at Warren's Grove for another month; while you are here I
+will be answerable for the children; I will allow them five shillings
+a week each--you understand?"
+
+"Yes, I understand," said Lydia, "and I'm sure they ought to be
+obliged to you, Mr. Preston. But should I not take steps about the
+workhouse?"
+
+"I will take the necessary steps when the time comes. Leave the
+matter to me."
+
+That evening Lydia called Cecile to her side.
+
+"Look here, child, you have got a kind friend in Mr. Preston. He is
+going to support you both here for a month longer. It is very good of
+him, for you are nothing, either of you, but little beggar brats, as
+your cousin in France won't send any more money."
+
+"Our cousin in France won't send any more money!" repeated Cecile.
+Her face grew very pale, her eyes fell to the ground; in a moment she
+raised them.
+
+"Where are we to go at the end of the month, Aunt Lydia Purcell?"
+
+"To the workhouse."
+
+"You said before it was to the Union."
+
+"Yes, child, yes; 'tis all the same."
+
+But here Maurice, who had been busy playing with Toby and apparently
+not listening to a single word, scrambled up hastily to his feet and
+came to Cecile's side.
+
+"But Cecile and me aren't going into no Union, wicked Aunt Lydia
+Purcell!" he said.
+
+"Heity-teity!" said Lydia, laughing at his little red face and
+excited manner.
+
+The laugh enraged Maurice, who had a very hot temper.
+
+"I hate you, Aunt Lydia Purcell!" he repeated, "I hate you! and I'm
+not going to be afraid of you. You said you'd give our Toby a yard of
+rope; if you do you'll be a murderer. I think you're so wicked,
+you're one already."
+
+Those words, striking at some hidden, deep-seated pain in Lydia's
+heart, caused her to wince and turn pale. She rose from her seat,
+shaking her apron as she did so. But before she left the room she
+cast a look of unutterable aversion on both the children.
+
+Cecile now knew what she had before her. She, Maurice, and Toby had
+just a month to prepare--just a month to get ready for the great task
+of Cecile's life. At the end of a month they must set forth--three
+pilgrims without a guide. Cecile felt that it was a pity this long
+journey which they must take in secret should begin in the winter.
+Had she the power of choice, she would have put off so weary a
+pilgrimage until the days were long and the weather mild. But there
+was no choice in the matter now; just when the days were shortest and
+worst, just at Christmas time, they must set out. Cecile was a very
+wise child for her years. Her father had called her dependable. She
+was dependable. She had thought, and prudence, and foresight. She
+made many schemes now. At night, as she lay awake in her attic
+bedroom, in the daytime, as she walked by Maurice's side, she
+pondered them. She had two great anxieties,--first, how to find the
+way; second, how to make the money last. Fifteen pounds her
+stepmother had given her to find Lovedy with. Fifteen pounds seemed
+to such an inexperienced head as Cecile's a very large sum of money
+--indeed, quite an inexhaustible sum. But Mrs. D'Albert had assured her
+that it was not a large sum at all. It was not even a large sum for
+one, she said, even for Cecile herself. To make it sufficient she
+must walk a great deal, and sleep at the smallest village inns, and
+eat the plainest food. And how much shorter, then, would the money
+go, if it had to supply two with food and the other necessities of
+the journey? Cecile resolved that, if possible, they would not touch
+the money laid in the Russia-leather purse until they really got into
+France. Her present plan was to walk to London. London was not so
+very far out of Kent, and once in London, the place where she had
+lived all, or almost all her life, she would feel at home. Cecile
+even hoped she might be able to earn a little money in London, money
+enough to take Maurice and Toby and herself into France. She had not
+an idea how the money was to be earned, but even if she had to sweep
+a crossing, she thought she could do it. And, for their walk into
+London, there was that precious half sovereign, which kind Mr.
+Preston had given Maurice, and which Cecile had put by in the same
+box which held the leather purse. They might have to spend a shilling
+or two of that half sovereign, and for the rest, Cecile began to
+consider what they could do to save now. It was useless to expect
+such foresight on Maurice's part. But for herself, whenever she got
+an apple or a nut, she put it carefully aside. It was not that her
+little teeth did not long to close in the juicy fruit, or to crack
+the hard shell and secure the kernel. But far greater than these
+physical longings was her earnest desire to keep true to her solemn
+promise to the dead--to find, and give her mother's message and her
+mother's gift to the beautiful, wayward English girl who yet had
+broken that mother's heart.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+THE CUPBOARD IN THE WALL.
+
+
+But poor Cecile had greater anxieties than the fear of her journey
+before her.
+
+Mrs. D'Albert--when she gave her that Russia-leather purse--had said
+to her solemnly, and with considerable fear:
+
+"Keep it from Lydia Purcell. Let Lydia know nothing about it, for
+Lydia loves money so well that no earthly consideration would make
+her spare you. Lydia would take the money, and all my life-work, and
+all your hope of finding Lovedy, would be at an end."
+
+This, in substance, was Mrs. D'Albert's speech; and Cecile had not
+been many hours in Lydia Purcell's company without finding out how
+true those words were.
+
+Lydia loved money beyond all other things. For money she would sell
+right, nobleness, virtue. All those moral qualities which are so
+precious in God's sight Lydia would part with for that possession
+which Satan prizes--money.
+
+Cecile, when she first came to Warren's Grove, had put her treasure
+into so secure and out-of-the-way a hiding place that she felt quite
+easy about it. Lydia would never, never think of troubling her head
+about that attic sloping down to the roof, still less would she poke
+her fingers into the little secret cupboard where the precious purse
+lay.
+
+Cecile's mind therefore was quite light. But one morning, about a
+week after Mrs. Bell's funeral, as she and Maurice were preparing to
+start out for their usual ramble, these words smote on her ears with
+a strange and terrible sense of dread.
+
+"Jane," said Lydia, addressing the cook, "we must all do with a cold
+dinner to-day, and not too much of that, for, as you write a very
+neat hand, I want you to help me with the inventory, and it has got
+to be begun at once. I told Mr. Preston I would have no agent
+pottering about the place. 'Tis a long job, but I will do it myself."
+
+"What's an inkin-dory?" asked Maurice, raising a curious little face
+to Jane.
+
+"Bless yer heart, honey," said Jane, stooping down and kissing him,
+"an inventory you means. Why, 'tis just this--Mrs. Purcell and me--we
+has got to write down the names of every single thing in the house
+--every stick, and stone, and old box, and even, I believe, the names
+of the doors and cupboards. That's an inventory, and mighty sick
+we'll be of it."
+
+"Come, Jane, stop chattering," said Lydia. "Maurice, run out at
+once. You'll find me in the attics, Jane, when you've done. We'll get
+well through the attics to-day."
+
+Aunt Lydia turned on her heel, and Maurice and Cecile went slowly
+out. Very slow, indeed, were Cecile's footsteps.
+
+"How dull you are, Cecile!" said the little boy.
+
+"I'm not very well," said Cecile. "Maurice," she continued suddenly,
+"you go and play with Toby, darling. Go into the fields, and not too
+far away; and don't stay out too late. Here's our lunch. No, I don't
+want any. I'm going to lie down. Yes, maybe I'll come out again."
+
+She ran away before Maurice had even time to expostulate. She was
+conscious that a crisis had come, that a great dread was over her,
+that there might yet be time to take the purse from its hiding place.
+
+An inventory meant that every box was looked into, every cupboard
+opened. What chance then had her purse in its tin box in a forgotten
+cupboard? That cupboard would be opened at last, and her treasure
+stolen away. Aunt Lydia was even now in the attics, or was she? Was
+there any hope that Cecile might be in time to rescue the precious
+purse?
+
+She flew up the attic stairs, her heart beating, her head giddy. Oh!
+if she might be in time!
+
+Alas! she was not. Aunt Lydia was already in full possession of
+Cecile's and Maurice's attic. She was standing on tiptoe, and taking
+down some musty books from a shelf.
+
+"Go away, Cecile," she said to the little girl, "I'm very busy, and
+I can't have you here; run out at once."
+
+"Please, Aunt Lydia, I've such a bad headache," answered poor
+Cecile. This was true, for her agitation was so great she felt almost
+sick. "May I lie down on my bed?" she pleaded.
+
+"Oh, yes, child! if your head is bad. But you won't get much quiet
+here, for Jane and I have our work cut out for us, and there'll be
+plenty of noise."
+
+"I don't mind a noise, if I may lie down," answered Cecile thankfully.
+
+She crept into her bed, and lay as if she was asleep. In reality,
+with every nerve strung to the highest tension, sleep was as
+impossible for her as though such a boon had never been granted to
+the world. Whenever Aunt Lydia's back was turned, her eyes were
+opened wide. Whenever Aunt Lydia looked in her direction, the poor
+little creature had to feign the sleep which was so far away. As long
+as it was only Maurice's and Cecile's attic, there was some rest.
+There was just a shadowy hope that Aunt Lydia might go downstairs for
+something, that five minutes might be given her to snatch her
+treasure away.
+
+Lydia Purcell, however, a thoroughly clever woman, was going through
+her work with method and expedition. She had no idea of leaving the
+attics until she had taken a complete and exhaustive list of what
+they contained.
+
+Cecile began to count the articles of furniture in her little
+bedroom. Alas! they were not many. By the time Jane appeared, a
+complete list of them was nearly taken.
+
+"Jane, go into that little inner attic, and poke out the rubbish,"
+said Aunt Lydia, "poke out every stick and stone, and box. Don't
+overlook a thing. I'll be with you in a minute."
+
+"Nasty, dirty little hole," remarked Jane. "I'll soon find what it
+contains; not sixpence worth, I'll warrant."
+
+But here the rack of suspense on which poor Cecile was lying became
+past endurance, the child's fortitude gave way.
+
+Sitting up in bed, she cried aloud in a high-pitched, almost
+strained voice, her eyes glowing, her cheeks like peonies:
+
+"Oh! not the little cupboard in the wall. Oh! please--oh! please,
+not the little cupboard in the wall."
+
+"What cupboard? I know of no cupboard," exclaimed Aunt Lydia.
+
+Jane held up her hands.
+
+"Preserve us, ma'am, the poor lamb must be wandering, and look at
+her eyes and hands."
+
+"What is it, Cecile? Speak! what is it, you queer little creature?"
+said Aunt Lydia, in both perplexity and alarm, for the child was
+sobbing hard, dry, tearless sobs.
+
+"Oh, Aunt Lydia! be merciful," she gasped. "Oh! oh! if you find it
+don't keep it. 'Tisn't mine, 'tis Lovedy's; 'tis to find Lovedy. Oh!
+don't, don't, don't keep the purse if you find it, Aunt Lydia Purcell."
+
+At the word "purse" Aunt Lydia's face changed. She had been feeling
+almost kind to poor Cecile; now, at the mention of what might contain
+gold, came back, sweeping over her heart like a fell and evil wind,
+the love of gold.
+
+"Jane," she said, turning to her amazed handmaiden; "this wicked,
+silly child has been hiding something, and she's afraid of my finding
+it. Believe me, I will look well into the inner attic. She spoke of a
+cupboard. Search for a cupboard in the wall, Jane."
+
+Jane, full of curiosity, searched now with a will. There was but a
+short moment of suspense, then the sliding panel fell back, the
+little tin box was pulled out, and Cecile's Russia-leather purse was
+held up in triumph between Jane's finger and thumb.
+
+There was a cry of pleasure from Aunt Lydia. Cecile felt the attic
+growing suddenly dark, and herself as suddenly cold. She murmured
+something about "Lovedy, Lovedy, lost now," and then she sank down, a
+poor unconscious little heap, at Aunt Lydia's feet.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+ON THE ROAD TO THE CELESTIAL CITY.
+
+
+When Cecile awoke from the long swoon into which she had sunk, it
+was not to gaze into the hard face of Lydia Purcell. Lydia was
+nowhere to be seen, but bending over her, with eyes full of
+compassion, was Jane. Jane, curious as she was, felt now more sorrow
+than curiosity for the little creature struck down by some mysterious
+grief.
+
+At first the child could remember nothing.
+
+"Where am I?" she gasped, catching hold of Jane's hand and trying to
+raise herself.
+
+"In yer own little bed, honey. You have had a faint and are just
+coming round; you'll be all right in a minute or two. There, just one
+tiny sup more wine and I'll get you a nice hot cup of tea."
+
+Cecile was too weak and bewildered not to obey. She sipped the wine
+which Jane held to her lips, then lay back with a little sigh of
+relief and returning consciousness.
+
+"I'm better now; I'm quite well now, Jane," she murmured in a
+thankful voice.
+
+"Yes, honey, you are a deal better now," answered Jane, stooping
+down and kissing her. "And now never don't you stir a bit, and don't
+worry about nothing, for Jane will fetch you a nice cup of tea, and
+then see how pleasant you'll feel."
+
+The kind-hearted girl hurried away, and Cecile was left alone in the
+now quiet attic.
+
+What thing had happened to her? What weight was at her heart? She
+had a desire, not a keen desire, but still a feeling that it would
+give her pleasure to be lying in the grave by her father's side. She
+felt that she did not much care for anyone, that anything now might
+happen without exciting her. Why was not her heart beating with love
+for Maurice and Toby? Why had all hope, all longing, died within her?
+Ah! she knew the reason. It came back to her slowly, slowly, but
+surely. All that dreadful scene, all those moments of suspense too
+terrible even to be borne, they returned to her memory.
+
+Her Russia-leather purse of gold and notes were gone, the fifteen
+pounds she was to spend in looking for Lovedy, the forty pounds she
+was to give as her dead mother's dying gift to the wandering girl,
+had vanished. Cecile felt that as surely as if she had flung it into
+the sea, was that purse now lost. She had broken her promise, her
+solemn, solemn promise to the dead; everything, therefore, was now
+over for her in life.
+
+When Jane came back with the nice hot tea, Cecile received it with a
+wan smile. But there was such a look of utter, unchildlike despair in
+her lovely eyes that, as the handmaiden expressed it, telling the
+tale afterward, her heart went up into her mouth with pity.
+
+"Cecile," said the young woman, when the tea-drinking had come to an
+end, "I sees by yer face, poor lamb, as you remembers all about what
+made you drop down in that faint. And look you here, my lamb, you've
+got to tell me, Jane Parsons, all about it; and what is more, if I
+can help you I will. You tell Jane all the whole story, honey, for it
+'ud go to a pagan's heart to see you, and so it would; and you
+needn't be feared, for she ain't anywheres about. She said as she
+wanted no dinner, and she's safe in her room a-reckoning the money in
+the purse, I guess."
+
+"Oh, Jane!" said little Cecile, "the purse! the Russia-leather
+purse! I think I'll die, since Aunt Lydia Purcell has found the
+Russia-leather purse."
+
+"Well, tell us the whole story, child. It do seem a wonderful thing
+for a bit of a child like you to have a purse of gold, and then to
+keep it a-hiding. I don't b'lieve as you loves gold like Miss Purcell
+do; it don't seem as if you could have come by so much money wrong,
+Cecile."
+
+"No, Jane, I didn't come by it wrong. Mrs. D'Albert, my stepmother,
+gave me that Russia-leather purse, with all the gold and notes in it,
+when she was dying. I know exactly how much was in it, fifteen pounds
+in gold, and forty pounds in ten-pound Bank of England notes. I can't
+ever forget what was in that dreadful purse, as my stepmother told me
+I was never to lose until I found Lovedy."
+
+"And who in the name of fortune is Lovedy, Cecile? You do tell the
+queerest stories I ever listened to."
+
+"Yes, Jane, it is a very queer tale, and though I understand it
+perfectly myself, I don't suppose I can get you to understand."
+
+"Oh, yes! my deary, I'm very smart indeed at picking up a tale. You
+tell me all about Lovedy, Cecile."
+
+Thus admonished, Cecile did tell her tale. All that long sad story
+which the dying woman had poured into the child's listening ears was
+now told again to the wondering and excited cook. Jane listened with
+her mouth open and her eyes staring. If there was anything under the
+sun she dearly, dearly loved, it was a romance, and here was one
+quite unknown in her experience. Cecile told her little story in
+childish and broken words--words which were now and then interrupted
+by sobs of great pain--but she told it with the power which
+earnestness always gives.
+
+"I'll never find Lovedy now; I've broken my promise--I've broken my
+promise," she said in conclusion.
+
+"Well," answered Jane, drawing a long breath when the story was
+over, "that is interesting, and the queerest bit of a tale I ever set
+my two ears to listen to. Oh, yes! I believes you, child. You ain't
+one as'll tell lies--and that I'm gospel sure on. And so yer poor
+stepmother wanted you not to let Lydia Purcell clap her eyes on that
+purse. Ah, poor soul! she knew her own sister well."
+
+"Yes, Jane, she said I'd never see it again if Aunt Lydia found it
+out. Oh, Jane! I did think I had hid the purse so very, very secure."
+
+"And so you had, deary--real beautiful, and if it hadn't been for
+that horrid inventory, it might ha' lain there till doomsday. But now
+do tell me, Cecile--for I am curious, and that I won't go for to deny
+--suppose as you hadn't lost that purse, however 'ud a little mite
+like you go for to look for Lovedy?"
+
+"Oh, Jane! the purse is lost, and I can never do it now--never until
+I can earn it all back again my own self. But I'd have gone to France
+--me and Maurice and Toby had it all arranged quite beautiful--we
+were going to France this very winter. Lovedy is quite safe to be in
+France; and you know, Jane, me and Maurice ain't little English
+children. We are just a little French boy and girl; so we'd be sure
+to get on well in our own country, Jane."
+
+"Yes, yes, for sure," said Jane, knowing nothing whatever of France,
+but much impressed with Cecile's manner; "there ain't no doubt as
+you're a very clever little girl, Cecile, and not the least bit
+English. I dare say, young as you are, that you would find Lovedy,
+and it seems a real pity as it couldn't be."
+
+"I wanted the guide Jesus very much to go with us," said Cecile,
+raising her earnest eyes and fixing them on Jane's face. "If
+_He_ had come, we'd have been sure to find Lovedy. For me and
+Maurice, we are very young to go so far by ourselves. Do you know
+anything about that guide, Jane? Mistress Bell said when she was
+alive, that He took people into the New Jerusalem and into the
+Celestial City. But she never heard of His being a guide to anybody
+into France. I think 'tis a great, great pity, don't you?"
+
+Now Jane was a Methodist. But she was more, she was also a Christian.
+
+"My dear lamb," she said, "the blessed Lord Jesus'll guide you into
+France, or to any other place. Why, 'tis all on the road to the
+Celestial City, darling."
+
+"Oh! is it? Oh! would He really, really be so kind and beautiful?"
+said Cecile, sitting up and speaking with sudden eagerness and hope.
+"Oh, dear Jane! how I love you for telling me this! Oh! if only I had
+my purse of gold, how surely, how surely I should find Lovedy now."
+
+"Well, darling, there's no saying what may happen. You have Jane
+Parsons for your friend anyhow, and what is more, you have the Lord
+Jesus Christ. Eh! but He does love a little faithful thing like you.
+But see here, Cecile, 'tis getting dark, and I must run downstairs;
+but I'll send you up a real good supper by Maurice, and see that he
+and Toby have full and plenty. You lie here quite easy, Cecile, and
+don't stir till I come back to you. I'll bring you tidings of that
+purse as sure as my name's Jane, and ef I were you, Cecile, I'd just
+say a bit of a prayer to Jesus. Tell Him your trouble, it'll give you
+a power of comfort."
+
+"Is that praying? I did not know it was that."
+
+"That is praying, my poor little lamb; you tell it all straight away
+to the loving Jesus."
+
+"But He isn't here."
+
+"Oh, yes, darling! He'll be very nigh to you, I guess, don't you be
+frightened."
+
+"Does Jesus the guide come in the dark?"
+
+"He'll be with you in the dark, Cecile. You tell Him everything, and
+then have a good sleep."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+WHAT JANE PARSONS KNEW.
+
+
+When, a couple of hours later, Maurice, very tired and fagged after
+his long day's ramble, came upstairs, followed by Toby, and thrust
+into Cecile's hand a great hunch of seed-cake, she pushed it away,
+and said in an earnest, impressive whisper:
+
+"Hush!"
+
+"Oh, why?" asked Maurice; "you have been away all the whole day,
+Cecile; and Toby and me had no one to talk to, and now when I had
+such a lot to tell you, you say 'Hush' Why do you say 'Hush' Cecile?"
+
+"Oh, Maurice! don't talk, darling, 'tis because Lord Jesus the guide
+is in the room, and I think He must be asleep, for I have prayed a
+lot to Him, and He has not answered. Don't let's disturb Him,
+Maurice; a guide must be so tired when he drops asleep."
+
+"Where is He?" asked Maurice; "may I light a candle and look for Him?"
+
+"No, no, you mustn't; He only comes to people in the dark, so Jane
+says. You lie down and shut your eyes."
+
+"If you don't want your cake, may I eat it then?"
+
+"Yes, you may eat it. And, Toby, come into my arms, dear dog."
+
+Maurice was soon in that pleasant land of a little child's dreams,
+and Toby, full of most earnest sympathy, was petting and soothing
+Cecile in dog fashion.
+
+Meanwhile, Jane Parsons downstairs was not idle.
+
+Cecile's story, told after Cecile's fashion, had fired her honest
+heart with such sympathy and indignation that she was ready both to
+dare and suffer in her cause.
+
+Jane Parsons had been brought up at Warren's Grove from the time she
+was a little child. Her mother had been cook before her, and when her
+mother got too old, Jane, as a matter of course, stepped into her
+shoes. Active, honest, quiet, and sober, she was a valuable servant.
+She was essentially a good girl, guided by principle and religion in
+all she did.
+
+Jane had never known any other home but Warren's Grove, and long as
+Lydia Purcell had been there, Jane was there as long.
+
+Now she was prepared--prepared, if necessary--to give up her home.
+She meant, as I said, to run a risk, for it never even occurred to
+her not to help Cecile in her need. Let Lydia Purcell quietly pocket
+that money--that money that had been saved and hoarded for a purpose,
+and for such a purpose! Let Lydia spend the money that had, as Jane
+expressed it, a vow over it! Not if her sharp wits could prevent it.
+
+She thought over her plan as she bustled about and prepared the
+supper. Very glum she looked as she stepped quickly here and there,
+so much so that the dairymaid and the errand-boy chaffed her for her
+dull demeanor.
+
+Jane, however, hasty enough on most occasions, was too busy now with
+her own thoughts either to heed or answer them.
+
+Well she knew Lydia Purcell, equally well she knew that to tell
+Cecile's tale would be useless. Lydia cared for neither kith nor kin,
+and she loved money beyond even her own soul.
+
+But Jane, a clever child once, a clever woman now, had not been
+unobservant of some things in Lydia's past, some things that Lydia
+supposed to be buried in the grave of her own heart. A kind-hearted
+girl, Jane had never used this knowledge. But now knowledge was
+power. She would use it in Cecile's behalf.
+
+Ever since the finding of the purse, Lydia had been alone.
+
+In real or pretended indignation, she had left Cecile to get out of
+her faint as best she could. For six or seven hours she had now been
+literally without a soul to speak to. She was not, therefore,
+indisposed to chat with Jane--who was a favorite with her--when that
+handmaid brought in a carefully prepared little supper, and laid it
+by her side.
+
+"That's a very shocking occurrence, Jane," she began.
+
+"Eh?" said Jane.
+
+"Why, that about the purse. Who would have thought of a young child
+being so depraved? Of course the story is quite clear. Cecile poking
+about, as children will, found the purse; but, unlike a child, hid
+it, and meant to keep it. Well, to think that all this time I have
+been harboring, and sheltering, and feeding, and all without a
+sixpence to repay myself, a young thief! But wait till I tell Mr.
+Preston. See how long he'll keep those children out of the workhouse
+after this! Oh! no wonder the hardened little thing was in a state of
+mind when I went to search the attics!"
+
+"Heaven give me patience!" muttered Jane to herself. Aloud she said,
+"And who, do you think, the money belongs to, ma'am?"
+
+"I make no doubt whose it is, Jane," said Lydia Purcell quietly and
+steadily. "It is my own. This is my purse. It is the one poor old
+Mrs. Bell lost so many years ago. You were a child at the time, but
+there was some fuss made about it. I am short of money now, sadly
+short! and I count it a providence that this, small as it is, should
+have turned up."
+
+"You mean to keep it then?" said Jane.
+
+"Why, yes, I certainly do. You don't suppose I will hand it over to
+that little thief of a French girl? Besides, it is my own. Is it
+likely I should not know my own purse?"
+
+"Is there much money in it?" asked Jane as quietly as before.
+
+"No, nothing to make a fuss about. Only a few sovereigns and some
+silver. Nothing much, but still of value to a hard-working woman."
+
+"After that lie, I'll not spare her," muttered Jane to herself.
+Aloud she said, "I was only a child of ten years or so, but I
+remember the last time poor Mistress Bell was in that attic."
+
+"Indeed. And when was that?" asked Lydia.
+
+"I suppose it was then as she dropped the purse, and it got swept
+away in all the confusion that followed," continued Jane, now placing
+herself in front of Lydia, and gazing at her.
+
+Lydia was helping herself to another mutton-chop, and began to feel
+a little uncomfortable.
+
+"When was Mrs. Bell last in the attics?" she said.
+
+"I was with her," continued Jane. "I used to play a good bit with
+Missie Mercy in those days, you remember, ma'am? Mrs. Bell was poking
+about, but I was anxious for Mercy to come home to go on with our
+play, and I went to the window. I looked out. There was a fine view
+from that 'ere attic window. I looked out, and I saw--"
+
+"What?" asked Lydia Purcell. She had laid down her knife and fork
+now, and her face had grown a trifle pale.
+
+"Oh! nothing much. I saw you, ma'am, and Missie Mercy going into
+that poor mason's cottage, him as died of the malignant fever. You
+was there a good half hour or so. It was a day or two later as poor
+Missie sickened."
+
+"I did not think it was fever," said Lydia. "Believe me, believe me,
+Jane, I did not know it certainly until we were leaving the cottage.
+Oh! my poor lamb, my poor innocent, innocent murdered lamb!"
+
+Lydia covered her face with her hands; she was trembling. Even her
+strong, hard-worked hands were white from the storm of feeling within.
+
+"You knew of this, you knew this of me all these years, and you
+never told. You never told even _me_ until to-night," said Lydia
+presently, raising a haggard face.
+
+"I knew it, and I never told even you until to-night," repeated Jane.
+
+"Why do you tell me to-night?"
+
+"May I take away the supper, ma'am, or shall you want any more?"
+
+"No, no! take it away, take it away! You _don't_ know what I
+have suffered, girl; to be the cause, through my own carelessness, of
+the death of the one creature I loved. And--and--yes, I will tell the
+truth--I had heard rumors; yes, I had heard rumors, but I would not
+heed them. I was fearless of illness myself, and I wanted a new gown
+fitted. Oh! my lamb, my pretty, pretty lamb!"
+
+"Well, ma'am, nobody ever suspected it was you, and 'tis many years
+ago now. You don't fret. Good-night, ma'am!"
+
+Lydia gave a groan, and Jane, outside the door, shook her own hand
+at herself.
+
+"Ain't I a hard-hearted wretch to see her like that and not try to
+comfort? Well, I wonder if Jesus was there would He try a bit of
+comforting? But I'm out of all patience. Such feeling for a child as
+is dead and don't need it, and never a bit for a poor little living
+child, who is, by the same token, as like that poor Mercy as two peas
+is like each other."
+
+Jane felt low-spirited for a minute or two, but by the time she
+returned to the empty kitchen she began to cheer up.
+
+"I did it well. I think I'll get the purse back," she said to herself.
+
+She sat down, put out the light, and prepared to wait patiently.
+
+For an hour there was absolute stillness, then there was a slight
+stir in the little parlor. A moment later Lydia Purcell, candle in
+hand, came out, on her way to her bedroom. Jane slipped off her
+shoes, glided after her just far enough to see that she held a candle
+in one hand and a brandy bottle in the other.
+
+"God forgive me for driving her to it, but I had to get the purse,"
+muttered Jane to herself. "I'm safe to get the purse now."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+GOING ON PILGRIMAGE.
+
+
+It was still quite the middle of the night when a strong light was
+flashed into Cecile D'Albert's eyes, and she was aroused from a
+rather disturbed sleep by Jane, who held up the Russia-leather purse
+in triumph.
+
+"Here it is, Cecile," she said, "here it is. I guess Jesus Christ
+heard your bit of a prayer real wonderful quick, my lamb."
+
+"Oh, Jane! He did not answer me once," said Cecile, starting up and
+too surprised and bewildered to understand yet that her lost purse
+was really hers again. "He never heard me, Jane; I suppose He was
+asleep, for I did ask Him so often to let me have my purse back."
+
+"There wasn't much sleep about Him," said Jane; "the Lord don't
+never slumber nor sleep; and as to not answering, what answer could
+be plainer than yer purse, Cecile? Here, you don't seem to believe
+it, take it in yer hand and count."
+
+"My own purse; Lovedy's own purse," said Cecile, in rather a slow,
+glad voice. The sense of touch had brought to her belief. She opened
+her eyes wide and looked hard at Jane. Then a great light of beauty,
+hope, and rapture filled the lovely eyes, and the little arms were
+flung tight round the servant's honest neck.
+
+"Dear, dear Jane, I do love you. Oh! _did_ Aunt Lydia really
+give the purse back?"
+
+"You have got the purse, Cecile, and you don't ask no questions.
+Well, there, I don't mind telling you. She had it in her hand when
+she dropped asleep; she wor sleeping very sound, it was easy to take
+the purse away."
+
+"My own and Lovedy's purse," repeated Cecile. "Oh, Jane! it seems
+too good of Jesus to give it back to me again."
+
+"Aye, darling, He'll give you more than that if you ask Him, for
+you're one o' those as He loves. But now, Cecile, we ha' a deal to do
+before morning. You open the purse, and see that all the money is
+safe."
+
+Cecile did as she was bid, and out fell the fifteen sovereigns and
+the four Bank of England notes.
+
+"'Tis all there, Jane," she said, "even to the little bit of paper
+under the lining."
+
+"What's that, child?"
+
+"I don't know, there's some writing on it, but I can't read writing."
+
+"Well, but I can, let me read it, darling."
+
+Cecile handed the paper to her, and Jane read aloud the following
+words:
+
+"'This purse contains fifty-five pounds. Forty pounds in Bank of
+England ten-pound notes, for my dear and only child, Lovedy Joy;
+fifteen pounds in gold for my stepdaughter, Cecile D'Albert. To be
+spent by her in looking for my daughter, and for no other use whatever.
+
+"'Signed by me, Grace D'Albert, on this ninth day of September, 18--'
+
+"Cecile," said Jane suddenly, "you must let me keep this paper. I
+will send it back to you if I can, but you must let me keep it for
+the present. What I did to-night might have got me into trouble. But
+this will save me, if you let me keep it for a bit."
+
+"Yes, Jane, you must keep it; it only gives directions; I know all
+about them down deep in my heart."
+
+"And now, little one, I'm sorry to say there's no more sleep for you
+this night. You've got to get up; you and Maurice and Toby have all
+three of you to get up and be many, many miles away from here before
+the morning, for if Lydia found you in the house in the morning, you
+would not have that purse five minutes, child, and I don't promise as
+I could ever get it back again."
+
+"I always meant to go away," said Cecile quietly. "I did not know it
+would come so soon as to-night, but I'm quite ready. Me and Maurice
+and Toby, we'll walk to London. I have got half a sovereign that Mr.
+Preston gave to Maurice. We'll go to London first, and then to
+France. Yes, Jane, I'm quite ready. Shall I wake Maurice, and will
+you open the door to let us out?"
+
+"I'll do more than that, my little lamb; and ain't it enough to
+break one's heart to hear the poor innocent, and she taking it so
+calm and collected-like? Now, Cecile, tell me have you any friends in
+London?"
+
+"I once met a girl who sat on a doorstep and sang," answered Cecile.
+"I think she would be my friend, but I don't know where she lives."
+
+"Then she ain't no manner of good, deary. Jane Parsons can do better
+for you than that. Now listen to what I has got to say. You get up
+and dress, and wake Maurice and get him dressed, and then you,
+Maurice, and Toby slip downstairs as soft as little mice; make no
+noise, for ef _she_ woke it 'ud be all up with us. You three
+come down to the kitchen, and I'll have something hot for you to
+drink, and then I'll have the pony harnessed to the light cart, and
+drive you over to F--- in time to catch the three o'clock mail train.
+The guard'll be good to you for he's a friend of mine, and I'll have
+a bit of a note writ, and when you get to London the guard'll put you
+in a cab, and you'll drive to the address written on the note. The
+note is to my cousin, Annie West, what was Jones. She's married in
+London and have one baby, and her heart is as good and sweet and soft
+as honey. She'll keep you for a week or two, till 'tis time for you
+to start into France. Now be quick up, deary, and hide that purse in
+yer dress, werry safe."
+
+"Oh, Jane, what a beautiful, beautiful plan! And will Maurice's
+half-sovereign help us all that much?"
+
+"The half-sovereign won't have nothing to say to it; 'tis Jane
+Parsons' own work, and her own money shall pay it. You keep that
+half-sovereign for a rainy day, Cecile."
+
+"That's what Mr. Preston said when he gave it," echoed Cecile. And
+then the kind-hearted servant hurried downstairs to complete her
+arrangements.
+
+"Maurice," said Cecile, stooping down and waking her little brother.
+"Get up, Maurice, darling; 'tis time for us to commence our journey."
+
+"Oh, Cecile!" said the little fellow, "in the very middle of the
+night, and I'm so sleepy."
+
+"For Toby's sake, Maurice, dear."
+
+"Toby shall have no yard of rope, wicked Aunt Lydia," said Maurice
+at these words, starting up and rubbing his brown eyes to try and
+open them. Ten minutes later the three little pilgrims were in the
+kitchen being regaled with cake and hot coffee, which even Toby
+partook of with considerable relish.
+
+Then Jane, taking a hand of each little child, led them quietly out,
+and without any noise they all--even Toby--got into the light cart,
+and were off, numberless twinkling stars looking down on them. Lydia
+Purcell, believing she had the purse in her hand, was sleeping the
+sleep of the sin-laden and unhappy. She thought that broken and
+miserable rest worth the money treasure she believed she had secured.
+She little guessed that already it had taken to itself wings, and was
+lying against the calm and trustful heart of a little child; but the
+stars knew, and they smiled on the children as they drove away.
+
+Jane, when they got to the railway station, saw the guard, with
+whom, indeed, she was great friends, and he very gladly undertook to
+see to the children, and even to wink at the rule about dogs, and
+allow Toby to travel up to London with them. What is more, he put
+them into a first-class carriage which was empty, and bade them lie
+down and never give anything a thought till they found themselves in
+London.
+
+"Do you think Jesus the Guide is doing all this for us?" asked
+Cecile in a whisper, with her arms very tight around Jane's neck.
+
+"Yes, darling, 'tis all along His doing."
+
+"Oh! how easy He is making the first bit of our pilgrimage!" said
+Cecile.
+
+The whistle sounded. The train was off, and Jane found herself
+standing on the platform with tears in her eyes. She turned, once
+more got into the light cart, and drove quickly back to Warren's Grove.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+"LYDIA'S RESOLVE."
+
+
+Lydia Purcell had hitherto been an honest woman. Now, in resolving
+to keep the purse, she but yielded to a further stage of that
+insidious malady which for so long had been finding ample growth in
+her moral and spiritual nature. She did not, however, know that the
+purse was Cecile's. The child's agony, and even terror, she put down
+with considerable alacrity to an evil conscience. How would it be
+possible for all that money to belong to a little creature like Cecile?
+
+Lydia's real thought with regard to the Russia-leather purse was
+that it belonged to old Mrs. Bell--that it had been put into the
+little tin box, and, unknown to anyone, had got swept away as so much
+lumber in the attic. Cecile, poking about, had found it, and had made
+up her mind to keep it: hence her distress.
+
+Lydia had really many years ago lost a purse, about which the
+servants on the farm had heard her talk. It darted into her head to
+claim this purse, full of all its sweet treasure, as her own lost
+property. There was foundation to her tale. The servants would have
+no reason not to believe her.
+
+Mrs. Bell's heir was turning her out. She would avenge herself in
+this way on him. She would keep the money which he might lawfully
+claim. Thus she would once more lay by a nest-egg for a rainy day.
+
+Sitting in her own room, the door locked behind her, and counting
+the precious money, Lydia had made up her mind to do this. It was so
+easy to become a thief--detection would be impossible. Yes; she knew
+in her heart of hearts she was stealing, but looking at the
+delightful color of the gold--feeling the crisp banknotes--she did
+not think it very wrong to steal.
+
+She was in an exultant frame of mind when she went down to supper.
+When Jane appeared she was glad to talk to her.
+
+She little knew that Jane was about to open the sore, sore place in
+her heart, to probe roughly that wound that seemed as if it would
+never heal.
+
+When Jane left her, she was really trembling with agitation and
+terror. Another, then, knew her secret. If that was so, it might any
+day be made plain to the world that she had caused the death of the
+only creature she loved.
+
+Lydia was so upset that the purse, with its gold and notes, became
+for the time of no interest to her.
+
+There was but one remedy for her woes. She must sleep. She knew,
+alas! that brandy would make her sleep.
+
+Just before she laid her head on her pillow, she so far remembered
+the purse as to take it out of her pocket, and hold it in her hand.
+She thought the feel of the precious gold would comfort her.
+
+Jane found it no difficult task to remove the purse from her
+nerveless fingers. When she awoke in the morning, it was gone.
+
+Lydia had, however, scarcely time to realize her loss, scarcely time
+to try if it had slipped under the bedclothes, before Jane Parsons,
+with her bonnet and cloak still on, walked into the room. She came
+straight up to the bed, stood close to Lydia, and spoke:
+
+"You will wonder where I have been, and what I have been doing? I
+have been seeing the children, Cecile and Maurice D'Albert, and their
+dog Toby, off to London. Before they went, I gave the leather purse
+back to Cecile. It was not your purse, nor a bit like it. I took it
+out of your hand when you were asleep. There were forty pounds in
+banknotes, ten-pound banknotes, in the purse, and there were fifteen
+pounds in gold. Your sister Mrs. D'Albert had given this money to
+Cecile. You know your own sister's writing. Here it is. That paper
+was folded under the lining of the purse; you can read it. The purse
+is gone, and the children are in London before now. You can send a
+detective after them if you like."
+
+With these last words, Jane walked out of the room.
+
+For nearly an hour Lydia stayed perfectly still, the folded paper in
+her hand. At the end of that time she opened the paper, and read what
+it contained. She read it three times very carefully, then she got up
+and dressed, and came downstairs.
+
+When Jane brought her breakfast into the little parlor, she said a
+few words:
+
+"I shall send no detective after those children; they and their
+purse may slip out of my life, they were never anything to me."
+
+"May I have the bit of paper with the writing on it back?" asked
+Jane in reply.
+
+Lydia handed it to her. Then she poured herself out a cup of coffee,
+and drank it off.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SECOND PART.
+
+"FINDING THE GUIDE."
+
+
+
+  "As often the helpless wanderer,
+    Alone in a desert land,
+  Asks the guide his destined place of rest,
+    And leaves all else in his hand."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+"LOOKING FOR THE OLD COURT."
+
+
+When Jane Parsons left the children, and they found themselves in
+that comfortable first-class railway carriage on their way to London,
+Maurice and Toby, with contented sighs, settled themselves to resume
+their much-disturbed sleep. But Cecile, on whom the responsibility
+devolved, sat upright without even thinking of slumbering. She was a
+little pilgrim beginning a very long pilgrimage. What right had she
+to think of repose? It was perfectly natural for Maurice and Toby to
+shut their eyes and go off into the land of dreams; they were only
+following in her footsteps, doing trustfully just what she told them.
+But for the head of the pilgrim band, the "Great Heart" of the little
+party, such a pleasant and, under other circumstances, desirable
+course was impossible.
+
+When the train had first moved off she had taken the precious purse,
+which hitherto she had held in her hand, and restored it to its
+old hiding place in the bosom of her frock. Had she but known it,
+her treasure was safe enough there, for no one could suspect so
+poor-looking a child of possessing so large a sum of money. After
+doing this Cecile sat very upright, gravely watching, with her sweet
+wide-open blue eyes, the darkness they rushed through, and the occasional
+lights of the sleepy little stations which they passed. Now and then
+they stopped at one of these out-of-the-way stations, and then a very
+weary-looking porter would come yawning up, and there would be a
+languid attempt at bustle and movement, and then the night mail would
+rush on again into the winter's night. Yes, it was mid-winter now,
+and bitterly cold. The days, too, were at their very shortest, for it
+was just the beginning of December, and by the time they reached
+Victoria, not a blink of real light from the sky had yet come.
+
+Maurice felt really cross when he was awakened a second time in what
+seemed like the middle of the night, and even long-suffering Toby
+acknowledged to himself that it was very unpleasant.
+
+But Cecile's clear eyes looked up with all kinds of thanks into the
+face of the big guard as he put them into a cab, and gave the cabby
+directions where to drive them to.
+
+"A sweet child, bless her," he said to himself, as he turned away.
+The cabby had been desired to drive the children to Mrs. West's home,
+and the address Jane had written out was in his hand. The guard, too,
+had paid the fare; and Cecile was told that in about half an hour
+they would all find themselves in snug quarters.
+
+"Will they give us breakfast in 'snug quarters'?" asked Maurice, who
+always took things literally. "I wonder, Cecile, if 'snug quarters'
+will be nice?"
+
+Alas! poor little children. When the cab at last drew up at the door
+in C---- Street, and the cabby got down and rang the bell, and then
+inquired for Mrs. West, he was met by the discouraging information
+that Mrs. West had left that address quite a year ago. No, they could
+not tell where she had gone, but they fancied it was to America.
+
+"What am I to do now with you two little tots, and that 'ere dawg?"
+said the cabby, coming up to the cab door. "There ain't no Mrs. West
+yere. And that 'ere young party"--with a jerk of his thumb at the
+slatternly little individual who stood watching and grinning on the
+steps--"her says as Mrs. West have gone to 'Mericy. Ain't there no
+one else as I can take you to, little uns?"
+
+"No, thank you," answered Cecile. "We'll get out, please, Cabby.
+This is a nice dry street. Me, and Maurice, and Toby can walk a good
+bit. You couldn't tell us though, please, what's the nearest way from
+here to France?"
+
+"To France! Bless yer little heart, I knows no jography. But look
+yere, little un. Ha'n't you no other friends as I could take you to?
+I will, and charge no fare. There! I'll be generous for the sake of
+that pretty little face."
+
+But Cecile only shook her head.
+
+"We don't know nobody, thank you, Cabby" she said, "except one girl,
+and I never learned where her home was. We may meet her if we walk
+about, and I want very badly, very badly, indeed, to see her again."
+
+"Well, my dear, I'm feared as I must leave you, though I don't like
+to."
+
+"Oh, yes! and thank you for the drive." Here Cecile held out her
+little hand to the big rough cabby, and Maurice instantly followed
+her example; but Toby, who in his heart of hearts saw no reason for
+this excessive friendliness, stood by without allowing his tail to
+move a quarter of an inch. Then the little party turned the corner
+and were lost to view.
+
+"They aren't at all snug quarters, Cecile," said Maurice, in a
+complaining tone.
+
+"Oh, darling!" answered Cecile, "they aren't so bad. See, the sun is
+coming out, and it will be quite pleasant to walk, and we're back in
+London again. We know London, you must not forget, Maurice. And,
+Maurice, me and you have got to be very brave now. We have a great,
+great deal before us. We have got something very difficult but very
+splendid to do. We have got to be very brave, Maurice, and we must
+not forget that we are a little French boy and girl, and not disgrace
+ourselves before the English children."
+
+"And has Toby got to be brave too?" asked Maurice.
+
+"Yes, Toby is always brave, I think. Now, Maurice, listen to me. The
+first thing we'll do is to get some breakfast. I have got all your
+half-sovereign. You don't forget your half-sovereign. We will spend a
+little, a very little, of that on some breakfast, and then afterward
+we will look for a little room where we can live until I find out
+from someone the right way to go to France."
+
+The thought of breakfast cheered Maurice up very much, and when a
+few moments later the two children and the dog found themselves
+standing before a coffee-stall, and Maurice had taken two or three
+sips of his sweet and hot coffee and had attacked with much vigor a
+great hunch of bread and butter, life began once more to assume
+pleasant hues to his baby mind. Cecile paid for the coffee and bread
+and butter with her half sovereign; and though the man at the coffee
+stall looked at it very hard, and also looked at her, and tested the
+good money by flinging it up and down on the stall several times and
+even taking it between his teeth and giving it a little bite, he
+returned the right change, saying, as he did so, "Put that away
+careful, young un, or you're safe to be robbed." But again the poor
+look of the little group proved their safeguard. For Cecile and
+Maurice in their hurry had come away in their shabbiest clothes, and
+Cecile's hat was even a little torn at the brim, and Maurice's toes
+were peeping out of his worn little boots, and his trousers were
+patched. This was all the better for Cecile's hidden treasure, and as
+she was a wise little girl, she took the hint given her by the coffee-man,
+and not only hid her money, but next time she wanted anything offered
+very small change. This was rendered easy, for the man at the coffee-stall
+had given her mostly sixpences and pence.
+
+The sun was now shining brilliantly. The day was frosty and bright;
+there would be a bitter night further on, but just now the air was
+fresh and invigorating. The children and dog, cheered and warmed by
+their breakfast, stepped along gayly, and Cecile began to think that
+going on pilgrimage was not such a bad thing.
+
+Having no one to consult, Cecile was yet making up her plans with
+rare wisdom for so young a child. They would walk back to the part of
+London that they knew. From there they would make their inquiries,
+those inquiries which were to land them in France. In their old
+quarters, perhaps in their old home, they might get lodgings.
+
+Walking straight on, Cecile asked every policeman she met to direct
+them to Bloomsbury, but whether the police were careless and told
+them wrong, whether the distance was too great, or whether Cecile's
+little head was too young to remember, noon came, and noon passed,
+and they were still far, far away from the court where their father
+and stepmother had died.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+"A NIGHT'S LODGINGS."
+
+
+Soon after noon, Cecile, Maurice, and Toby sat down to shelter and
+rest themselves on a step under the deep porch of an old church. The
+wind had got up, and was very cold, and already the bright morning
+sky had clouded over.
+
+There was a promise of snow in the air and in the dull sky, and the
+children shivered and drew close to each other.
+
+"We won't mind looking any longer for our old court to-day,
+Maurice," said Cecile. "As soon as you are rested, darling, we'll go
+straight and get a night's lodging. I am afraid we must do it as
+cheap as possible, but you shan't walk any more to-day."
+
+To all this Maurice, instead of replying in his usual grumbling
+fashion, laid his head on his sister's lap, and dropped off into a
+heavy sleep. His pretty baby face looked very white as he slept, and
+when Cecile laid her hand on his cheek it was cold.
+
+She felt a fresh dread coming over her. Was Maurice too completely a
+baby boy to go on such a long and weary pilgrimage? And oh! if this
+was the case, what should she do? For they had nothing to live on.
+There seemed no future at all before the little girl but the future
+of finding Lovedy.
+
+Cecile buried her head in her hands, and again the longing rose up
+strong, passionate, fervent, that Jesus, the good Guide, would come
+to her. He had come once. He was in the dark room last night. He
+answered her though He made no sound, though, listen as she would,
+she could not hear the faintest whisper from His lips. Still He was
+surely there. Jane had said so, and Jane knew Him well; she said it
+was He who had sent back her purse. Suppose she met Him in the street
+to-day, and He knew her? Suppose He came out of the church behind
+them? Or suppose, suppose He came to her again in the dark in that
+"lodging for the night," where they must go? Cecile wished much that
+Jesus would come in the daylight; she wanted to see His face, to look
+into His kind eyes. But even to feel that He would be with her in the
+dark was a great comfort in her present desolation.
+
+Cecile was aroused from her meditations by something very soft and
+warm rubbing against her hand. She raised her eyes to encounter the
+honest and affectionate gaze of Toby.
+
+Toby's eyes were bright, and he was wagging his tail, and altogether
+seeming as if he found life agreeable. He gamboled a little when
+Cecile looked at him, and put his forepaws on her lap. Toby meant
+nothing by this but to please and cheer his little mistress. He saw
+she was down and tired, and he was determined to put a bold face on
+things, and to get a bit of sunshine, even on this December
+afternoon, into his own honest eyes, if it would come nowhere else.
+Generally Cecile was the brightest of the party; now Toby was
+determined to show her that he was a dog worth having in adversity.
+
+She did think so. Tears sprang to her own blue eyes. She threw her
+arms round Toby's neck and gave him a great hug. In the midst of this
+caress the dog's whole demeanor changed; he gave a quick spring out
+of Cecile's embrace, and uttered an angry growl. A girl was
+approaching by stealthy steps at the back of the little party.
+
+The moment she heard Toby's bark she changed her walk to a quick run
+and threw herself down beside Cecile with an easy hail-fellow-well-met
+manner.
+
+"Well, you're a queer un, you ere," she said, looking up pertly in
+Cecile's face, "a-hugging of that big dawg, and a-sitting on the
+church steps of St. Stephen's on the werry bitterest evening that has
+come this year yet. Ha'n't you no home, now, as you sits yere?"
+
+"No; but I am going to look out for a night's lodging at once,"
+answered Cecile.
+
+"For you and that ere little un, and the dawg?"
+
+"Yes, we must all three be together whatever happens. Do you know of
+a lodging, little girl?"
+
+"My name's Jessie--Jessie White. Yes, I knows where I goes myself.
+'Tis werry warm there. 'Tis a'most _too_ warm sometimes."
+
+"And is it cheap?" asked Cecile. "For me, and Maurice, and Toby, we
+have got to do things _very_ cheap. We shall only be a day or
+two in London, and we must do things _very_, very cheap while we
+stay."
+
+"Oh! my eyes! hasn't we all to do things cheap? What does you say to
+a penny? A penny is wot I pays for a share of a bed, and I s'pose as
+you and that ere little chap could have one all to yerselves for
+tuppence, and the dawg, he ud lie in for nothink. I calls tuppence
+uncommon cheap to be warm for so many hours."
+
+"Tuppence?" said Cecile. "Two pennies for Maurice and me and Toby.
+Yes, I suppose that is cheap, Jessie White. I don't know anything
+about prices, but it does not sound dear. We will go to your lodgings
+if you will tell us the right street, and I hope it is not far away,
+for Maurice is very tired."
+
+"No, it ain't far, but you can't go without me; you would not get in
+nohow. Now, I works in the factory close by, and I'm just out for an
+hour for my dinner. I'll call for you yere, ef you like, at five
+o'clock, and take you straight off, and you can get into bed at once.
+And now s'pose as we goes and has a bit of dinner? I has tuppence for
+my dinner. I did mean to buy a beautiful hartificial flower for my
+hat instead, but somehow the sight of you three makes me so starved
+as I can't stand it. Will you come to my shop and have dinner too?"
+
+To this proposition Cecile, Maurice (who had awakened), and Toby all
+eagerly agreed; and in a moment or two the little party found
+themselves being regaled at the ragged girl's directions with great
+basins of hot soup and hunches of bread. She took two basins of soup,
+and two hunches of bread herself. But though Maurice and Cecile
+wished very much for more, Cecile--even though it was to be paid for
+with their own money--felt too timid to ask again, and the strange
+girl appeared to think it impossible they could want more than one
+supply.
+
+"I'm off now," she said to Cecile, coming up to her and wiping her
+mouth.
+
+"Yes; but where are we to meet you for the lodging?" asked the
+little girl anxiously--"Maurice is _so_ tired--and you promised
+to show us. Where shall we get the lodging for the night?"
+
+The girl gave a loud rude laugh.
+
+"'Tis in Dean Street," she said. "Dean Street's just round the
+corner--'tis number twenty. I'll turn up if I ha' money."
+
+"But you said we could not get in without you," said Cecile.
+
+"Well, what a bother you ere! I'll turn up if I can. You be there at
+the door, and if I can I'll be there too." Then she nodded violently,
+and darted out of the shop.
+
+Cecile wondered why she was in such a hurry to go, and at the change
+in her manner, but she understood it a little better when she saw
+that the ragged girl had so arranged matters that Cecile had to pay
+for all the dinners!
+
+"I won't never trust ragged girls like that again," was her wise
+mental comment; and then she, Maurice, and Toby recommenced their
+weary walking up and down. Their dinner had once more rested and
+refreshed them, and Cecile hoped they might yet find the old court in
+Bloomsbury. But the great fatigue of the morning came back a little
+sooner in the short and dull winter's afternoon, and the child
+discovered now to her great distress that she was lagging first. The
+shock and trouble she had gone through the day before began to tell
+on her, and by the time Maurice suddenly burst into tears her own
+footsteps were reeling.
+
+"I think you're unkind, Cecile," said the little boy, "and I don't
+believe we are ever, ever going to find our old court, or the
+lodgings for the night."
+
+"There's a card up at this house that we're passing" said Cecile.
+"I'll ask for a lodging at this very house, Maurice."
+
+She rang the bell timidly, and in a moment or so a pert girl with a
+dirty cap on her head came and answered it.
+
+"Please," said Cecile, raising her pretty anxious little face, "have
+you got a lodging for the night for two little children and a dog? I
+see a card up. We don't mind its being a very small lodging, only it
+must be cheap."
+
+The girl burst out laughing, and rude as the ragged girl's laugh had
+been, this struck more painfully, with a keener sense of ridicule, on
+Cecile's ear.
+
+"Well, I never," said the servant-maid at last; "_you_ three
+want a lodging in this yere house? A night's lodging she says, for
+her and the little un and the dog she says, and she wants it cheap,
+she says. Go further afield, missy, this house ain't for the likes of
+you," and then the door was slammed in Cecile's face.
+
+"Look, look," said Maurice excitedly, "there's a crowd going in
+there; a great lot of people, and they're all just as ragged as me
+and you and Toby. Let's go in and get a bed with the ragged people,
+Cecile."
+
+Cecile raised her eyes, then she exclaimed joyfully:
+
+"Why, this is Dean Street, Maurice. Yes, and that's, that's number
+twenty. We can get our night's lodging without that unkind ragged
+girl after all."
+
+Then the children, holding each other's hands, and Toby keeping
+close behind, found themselves in the file of people, and making
+their way into the house, over the door of which was written:
+
+"CHEAP LODGINGS FOR THE NIGHT FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN."
+
+Early as the hour was, the house seemed already full from attic to
+cellar. Cecile and Maurice were pushed into a good-sized room about
+halfway up the first flight of stairs.
+
+At the door of this room a woman stood, who demanded pennies of
+everyone before they were allowed to enter the room.
+
+Cecile had some slight difficulty in getting hers out of the bosom
+of her frock; she did so with anxiety, and some effort at
+concealment, which was observed by two people:
+
+One was a red-faced, wicked-looking girl of about sixteen; the other
+was a pale woman, who turned her worn faded brown eyes, with a
+certain look of pathos in them, on the little pair.
+
+The moment the people got into the room, there was a scramble for
+the beds, which were nothing better than wooden boards, with canvas
+bags laid on them, and a second piece of canvas placed for covering.
+But bad and comfortless as these beds looked, without either pillow
+or bolster, they were all eagerly coveted, and all soon full. Two and
+even three got into each, and those who could not get accommodation
+in that way were glad to throw themselves on the floor, as near to a
+great stove, which burned hot and red, as possible.
+
+It would have fared very badly with Cecile and Maurice were it not
+for the woman who noticed them at the door. But as they were looking
+round bewildered, and Toby was softly licking Cecile's hand, the
+little girl felt a touch from this woman.
+
+"I ha' my own bed laid ready in this corner, and you are both
+welcome to share it, my little dears."
+
+"Oh! they may come with me. I has my corner put by too," said the
+red-faced girl, who also came up.
+
+"Please, ma'am, we'll choose your bed, if Toby may sleep with us,"
+said Cecile, raising her eyes, and instinctively selecting the right
+company.
+
+The woman gave a faint, sad smile, the girl turned scowling away,
+and the next moment Maurice found himself curled up in the most
+comfortable corner of the room. He was no longer cold, and hard as
+his bed was, he was too tired to be particular, and in a moment he
+and Toby were both sound asleep.
+
+But Cecile did not sleep. Weary as she was, the foul air, the fouler
+language, smote painfully on her ears. The heat, too, soon became
+almost unbearable, and very soon the poor child found herself wishing
+for the cold streets in preference to such a night's lodging.
+
+There was no chance whatever of Jesus coming to a place like this,
+and Cecile's last hope of His helping her vanished.
+
+The strong desire that He would come again and do something
+wonderful, as He had done the day before, had been with her for many
+dreary hours; and when this hope disappeared, the last drop in her
+cup of trouble was full, and poor, brave, tired little pilgrim that
+she was, she cried long and bitterly. The pale woman by her side was
+long ago fast asleep. Indeed silence, broken only by loud snores, was
+already brooding over the noisy room. Cecile was just beginning to
+feel her own eyes drooping, when she was conscious of a little
+movement. There was a gas jet turned down low in the room, and by its
+light she could see that unpleasant red-faced girl sitting up in bed.
+She was not only sitting up, but presently she was standing up, and
+then the little girl felt a cold chill of fear coming over her. She
+came up to the bedside.
+
+Cecile almost thought she must scream, when suddenly the pale woman,
+who had appeared so sound asleep, said quietly:
+
+"Go back to yer bed at once, Peggie Jones. I know what you're up to."
+
+The girl, discomfited, slunk away; and for ten minutes there was
+absolute silence. Then the woman, laying her hand on Cecile's
+shoulder, said very softly:
+
+"My dear, you have a little money about you?"
+
+"Yes," answered the child.
+
+"I feared so. You must come away from here at once. I can protect
+you from Peggie. But she has accomplices who'll come presently. You'd
+not have a penny in the morning. Get up, child, you and the little
+boy. Why, 'twas the blessed Jesus guided you to me to save. Come,
+poor innocent lambs!"
+
+There was one thing the woman had said which caused Cecile to think
+it no hardship to turn out once more into the cold street. She rose
+quite quietly, her heart still and calm, and took Maurice's hand, and
+followed the woman down the stairs, and out once again.
+
+"Now, as you ha' a bit of money, I'll get you a better lodging than
+that," said the kind woman; and she was as good as her word, and took
+the children to a cousin of her own, who gave them not only a tiny
+little room, and a bed which seemed most luxurious by contrast, but
+also a good supper, and all for the sum of sevenpence.
+
+So Cecile slept very sweetly, for she was feeling quite sure again
+that Jesus, who had even come into that dreadful lodging to prevent
+her being robbed, and to take care of her, was going to be her Guide
+after all.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+IN THE CORNER BEHIND THE ORGAN.
+
+
+The next morning the children got up early. The woman of the house,
+who had taken a fancy to them, gave them a good breakfast for
+fourpence apiece, and Toby, who had always hitherto had share and
+share alike, was now treated to such a pan of bones, and all for
+nothing, that he could not touch the coffee the children offered him.
+
+"Now," said Mrs. Hodge, "that ere dawg has got food enough and
+plenty for the whole day. When a dawg as isn't accustomed to it gets
+his fill o' bones 'tis wonderful how sustaining they is."
+
+"And may we come back again here to-night, ma'am?" asked Cecile
+eagerly.
+
+But here a disappointment awaited them. Mrs. Hodge, against her
+will, was obliged to shake her head. Her house was a popular one.
+The little room the children had occupied was engaged for a month from
+to-night. No--she was sorry--but she had not a corner of her house to
+put them in. It was the merest chance her being able to take them in
+for that one night.
+
+"It is a pity you can't have us, for I don't think you're a wicked
+woman," said Maurice, raising his brown eyes to scan her face solemnly.
+
+Mrs. Hodge laughed.
+
+"Oh! what a queer, queer little baby boy!" she said, stooping down
+to kiss him. "No, my pet; it 'ud be a hard heart as 'ud be wicked to
+you."
+
+But though Mrs. Hodge was sorry, she could not help the children,
+and soon after ten o'clock they once more stepped out into the
+streets. The sun was shining, and Maurice's spirits were high. But
+Cecile, who had the responsibility, felt sad and anxious. She was
+footsore and very tired, and she knew no more than yesterday where or
+how to get a night's lodging. She saw plainly that it would not do,
+with all that money about her, to venture into a penny lodging; and
+she feared that, even careful as they were, the ten shillings would
+soon be spent; and as to her other gold, she assured herself that she
+would rather starve than touch it until they got to France. The aim
+and object then of her present quest must be to get to France.
+
+Where was France? Her father said it lay south. Where was south? The
+cabby, when she asked him, said he could not tell her, for he did not
+know jography. What was jography? Was it a thing, or a person?
+Whoever or whatever it was, it knew the way to France, to that haven
+of her desire. Cecile must then endeavor to find jography. But where,
+and how? A church door stood open. Some straggling worshipers came
+out. The children stood to watch them. The door still remained open.
+Taking Maurice's hand, Cecile crept into the silent church; it felt
+warm and sheltered. Toby slipped under one of the pews; Cecile and
+Maurice sat side by side on a hassock. Maurice was still bright and
+not at all sleepy, and Cecile began to think it a good opportunity to
+tell him a little of the life he had before him.
+
+"Maurice," she said, "do you mind having to walk a long way, having
+to walk hundreds and hundreds of miles, and do you mind having to
+keep on walking for days and weeks?"
+
+"Yes," said Maurice. "I don't like walking; I'd rather go back to
+our old court."
+
+"But you'd like to pick flowers--pretty, pretty flowers growing by
+the waysides; and there'd be lots of sunshine all day long. It would
+not be like England, it would be down South."
+
+"Is it warm down South?" asked Maurice.
+
+"Why, Maurice, of course, that was where our father lived and where
+our own, own mother died; 'tis lovely, lovely down South."
+
+"Then I don't mind walking, Cecile; let's set of South at once."
+
+"Oh! I wish--I wish we could, darling. We have very little money,
+Maurice; 'tis most important for me and you and Toby to go to France
+as soon as possible. But I don't know the way. The cabby said
+something about Jography. If Jography is a person, _he_ knows
+the way to France. I should like to find Jography, and when we get to
+France, I have a hope, a great hope, that Jesus the Guide will come
+with us. Yes, I do think He will come."
+
+"That's Him as you said was in the dark in our attic?"
+
+"Yes, that's the same; and do you know He came into the dark of that
+other dreadful attic again last night, and 'twas He told the woman to
+take us out and give us those much nicer lodgings. Oh, Maurice! I
+_do_ think, yes, I do think, after His doing that, that He has
+quite made up His mind to take us to France."
+
+Maurice was silent. His baby face looked puzzled and thoughtful.
+Suddenly he sprang to his feet. His eyes were bright. He was
+possessed with an idea.
+
+"Cecile," he said, "let's get back to our old court. Do you know
+that back of our old court there's a square, and in that square a
+lovely, lovely garden? I have often stood at the rails and wanted to
+pick the flowers. There are heaps of them, and they are of all
+colors. Cecile, p'raps that garden is South. I should not mind
+walking in there all day. Let's go back at once and try to find it."
+
+"One moment, one moment first, Maurice," said Cecile. She, too, had
+a thought in her head. "You and Toby stay here. I'll be back in a
+moment," she exclaimed.
+
+Behind the organ was a dark place. In this short winter's day it
+looked like night.
+
+The idea had darted into Cecile's head that Jesus might be there.
+She went to the dark corner; yes, it was very gloomy. Peer hard as
+she would, she could not see into all its recesses. Jesus might be
+there. No one had ever taught her to kneel, but instinctively she
+fell on her knees and clasped her hands.
+
+"Jesus," she said, "I think you're here. I am most grateful to you,
+Jesus the Guide, for what you did for me and Maurice and Toby the
+last two nights. Jesus the Guide, will you tell me how to find
+Jography and how to get to France? and when we go there will you
+guide us? Please do, though it isn't the New Jerusalem nor the
+Celestial City. But I have very important business there, Jesus, very
+important. And Maurice is so young, he's only a baby boy, and he'll
+want you to carry him part of the way. Will you, who are so very
+good, come with us little children, and with Toby, who is the dearest
+dog in the world? And will you tell some kind, kind woman to give us
+a lodging for the night in a safe place where I won't be robbed of my
+money?"
+
+Here, while Cecile was on her knees still praying, a wonderful thing
+happened. It might have been called a coincidence, but I, who write
+the story of these little pilgrims, think it was more; for into
+Cecile's dark corner, unperceived by her, a man had come, and this
+man began to fill the great organ with wind, and then in a moment the
+whole church began to echo with sweet sounds, and in the midst of the
+music came a lull, and then one voice rose triumphant, joyful, and
+reassuring on the air.
+
+"Certainly, I will be with thee," sang the voice, "I will be with
+thee, I will be with thee."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+THE WOMAN WITH THE KINDEST FACE.
+
+
+Cecile went back to where she had left Maurice sitting on the church
+hassock, and, taking his hand, said to him, "Come."
+
+Her little, worn face was bright and some of the sweetness of the
+music she had been listening to had got into her blue eyes.
+
+"Come, Maurice," said Cecile. "I know now what to do. Everything
+will be quite right now. I have told Jesus all about it, and Jesus
+the Guide has answered me, and said He would come with us. Did you
+hear that wonderful, lovely music? That was Jesus answering me. And,
+Maurice, I asked Him to let us find a kind woman who will help us to
+a night's lodging, and I know He will do that too."
+
+"A kind woman?" said Maurice. "The kindest woman I ever saw is
+coming up the church steps this minute."
+
+Cecile looked in the direction in which Maurice pointed.
+
+A woman, with a pail in one hand and a large sweeping brush in the
+other, was not only coming up the steps, but had now entered the
+church door. Cecile and Maurice stood back a little in the shadow.
+The woman could not see them, but they could gaze earnestly at her.
+She was a stout woman with a round face, rosy cheeks, and bright,
+though small and sunken, brown eyes. Her eyes had, however, a light
+in them, and her wide lips were framed in smiles. She must have been
+a women of about fifty, but her broad forehead was without a wrinkle.
+Undoubtedly she was very plain. She had not a good feature, not even
+a good point about her ungainly figure. Never in her youngest days
+could this woman have been fair to see, but the two children, who
+gazed at her with beating hearts, thought her beautiful. Goodness and
+loving-kindness reigned in that homely face; so triumphantly did they
+reign, these rare and precious things, that the little children, with
+the peculiar penetration of childhood, found them out at once.
+
+"She's a _lovely_ woman," pronounced Maurice. "I'm quite sure
+she has got a night's lodging. I'll run and ask her."
+
+"No, no, she might not like it," whispered the more timid Cecile.
+
+But just then Toby, who had been standing very quiet and motionless
+behind Maurice, perceived a late, late autumn fly, sailing lazily by,
+within reach of his nose. That fly was too much for Toby; he made a
+snap at it, and the noise which ensued roused the woman's attention.
+
+"Oh! my little Honies," she said, coming forward, "we don't allow
+dogs in the church. Even a nice dog like that is against the rules.
+I'm very sorry, my loves, but the dog must go out of church."
+
+"Don't Jesus like dogs then?" asked Maurice.
+
+"And please, ma'am," suddenly demanded Cecile, before the woman had
+time to answer Maurice, "_is_ that Jesus the Guide playing the
+beautiful music up there?"
+
+"That, my dears! You shock me! That is only Mr. Ward the organist.
+He's practicing for tomorrow. To-morrow's Sunday, you know. Why, you
+_are_ a queer little pair."
+
+"We're going on a pilgrimage," said Maurice. "We're going South; and
+Cecile has been talking a great deal lately to Jesus the Guide; and
+she asked Him just now to find us a woman with a kind face to give us
+a night's lodging, and we both think you are quite lovely. Will you
+give us a night's lodging, ma'am?"
+
+"Will I? Hark to the baby! Well, I never! And are you two little
+orphans, dears?"
+
+"Yes," said Cecile, "our father is dead, and our mother, and our
+stepmother, and we have no one to care for us, except Jane Parsons,
+and we can't stay with Jane any longer, for if we did, we should only
+be sent to the Union."
+
+"And we couldn't go to the Union, though there _are_ good fires
+there," interrupted Maurice, "because of Toby. If we went to the
+Union, our dog Toby would get a yard of rope, that would be murder.
+We can never, never, never go to the Union on account of murdering
+Toby."
+
+"So we came away." continued Cecile. "Jane Parsons sent us to London
+with the guard yesterday. We are not English, we are foreign; me and
+Maurice are just a little French boy and girl, and we are going back
+to France, if we can find Jography to tell us how. But we want a
+night's lodging first. Will you give us a night's lodging, ma'am? We
+can pay you, please, ma'am."
+
+"Oh, yes, I've no doubt you can pay me well, and I'm like to want
+yer bit of money, and I suppose you want to bring Toby too."
+
+"Yes and Toby too," said Maurice.
+
+"Well, I never did hear the like, never. John, I say, John, come
+here."
+
+The man addressed as John came forward with great strides.
+
+He was a tall man about double the height of his stout wife.
+
+"John, honey," said the little stout woman, "yere's the queerest
+story. Two mites, all alone, with only a dog belonging to them;
+father dead, mother dead, and they asks ef that's Jesus playing the
+organ, and they wants a night's lodging, and I have the kindest face.
+Hark to the rogues! and will I give it to 'em? What say you, John?"
+
+"What say _you_, Molly? Have you room for 'em, old girl?"
+
+"The house is small," said the woman, "but there _is_ the
+little closet back of our bedroom, and Susie's mattress lying vacant.
+I could make 'em up tidy in that little closet."
+
+The man laughed, and chucked his wife under the chin.
+
+"Where's the use o' asking me," he said, "when you knows as you
+_can't_ say no to no waif nor stray as hever walked?"
+
+He went away, for he was employed just then in blowing the organ,
+and the organist was beckoning to him, so the woman turned to the
+children.
+
+"My name is Mrs. Moseley, darlings, and ef you're content with a
+werry small closet for you and yer dog, why, yer welcome, and I'll
+promise as it shall be clean. Why, ef that'll do for the night's
+lodging, you three jest get back into the church pew, and hide Toby
+well under the seat, and I'll have done my work in about an hour, and
+then we'll go back home to dinner."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+A HOUSE WITHOUT A DOOR.
+
+
+The children in their wanderings the day before, and again this
+morning, had quite unknown to themselves traveled quite away from
+Bloomsbury, and when they entered the church, and sat down in that
+pew, and hid Toby underneath, they were in the far-famed East-End
+quarter of the great town. They knew nothing of this themselves,
+though Cecile did think the houses very poor and the people very
+dirty. They were, therefore, doubly fortunate in coming across Mrs.
+Moseley.
+
+Mrs. Moseley was sextoness to the very new and beautiful church in
+Mile End. Her husband was a policeman at present on night duty, which
+accounted for his being at leisure to blow the organ in the church.
+This worthy couple had a little grave to love and tend, a little
+grave which kept their two hearts very green, but they had no living
+child. Mrs. Moseley had, however, the largest of mother's hearts--a
+heart so big that were it not for its capacity of acting mother to
+every desolate child in Mr. Danvers' parish, it must have starved.
+Now, she put Cecile and Maurice along with twenty more into that big
+heart of hers, and they were a truly fortunate little pair when she
+took them home.
+
+Such a funny home was hers, but so clean when you got into it.
+
+It was up a great many pairs of stairs, and the stairs at the top
+were a good deal broken, and were black with use, and altogether
+considerably out of repair. But the strangest part, though also the
+most delightful to Maurice and Cecile in their funny new home, was
+the fact that it had no door at all.
+
+When you got to the top and looked for the door, you were confronted
+with nothing but a low ceiling over your head, and a piece of rope
+within reach of your hand. If you pulled the rope hard enough, up
+would suddenly jump two or three boards, and then there was an
+opening big enough for you to creep into the little kitchen.
+
+Yes, it was the queerest entrance into the oddest little home. But
+when once you got there how cozy it all was!
+
+The proverbial saying, "eating off the floor," might have been
+practiced on those white boards. The little range shone like a
+looking glass, and cups and saucers were ranged on shelves above it.
+In the middle of the floor stood a bright and thick crimson drugget.
+The window, dormer though it was, was arranged quite prettily with
+crimson curtains, while some pots of sweet-smelling herbs and flowers
+stood on its ledge. There were two or three really good colored
+prints on the white-washed walls and several illuminated texts of
+Scripture. The little deal table, too, was covered with a crimson
+cloth.
+
+A canary bird hung in a cage in the window, and it is not too much
+to say that this poor bird, born and bred in the East End, was
+thoroughly happy in his snug home. A soft-furred gray cat purred
+before the little range. The bedroom beyond was as clean and neat as
+the kitchen, and the tiny room where Cecile, Maurice and Toby were to
+sleep, though nearly empty at present, would, Mrs. Moseley assured
+them, make a sleeping chamber by no means to be despised by and by.
+
+When they got into the house, Maurice ran all over it in fearless
+ecstasies. Cecile sat on the edge of a chair, and Toby, after
+sniffing at the cat, decided to make friends with her by lying down
+in the delicious warmth by her side.
+
+"What's yer name, dear heart?" asked Mrs. Moseley to the rather
+forlorn-looking little figure seated on the edge of a chair.
+
+"Cecile, please, ma'am."
+
+"Cecil! That sounds like a boy's name. It ain't English to give boy
+names to little girls. But then you're foreign, you say--French,
+ain't it? I once knew a girl as had lived a long time in France and
+loved it dearly. Well, well, but here's dinner ready; the potatoes
+done to a turn, and boiled bacon and greens. Now, where's my good
+man? We won't wait for him, honey. Come, Maurice, my man, I don't
+doubt but you're rare and hungry."
+
+"Yes," answered Maurice; "me and Cecile and Toby are very hungry. We
+had bad food yesterday; but I like this dinner, it smells good."
+
+"It will eat good too, I hope. Now, Cecile, why don't you come?"
+
+Cecile's face had grown first red and then pale.
+
+"Please," she said earnestly, "that good dinner that smells so
+delicious may be very dear. We little children and our dog we have
+got to be most desperate careful, please, Mrs. Moseley, ma'am. We
+can't eat that nice dinner if 'tis dear."
+
+"But s'pose 'tis cheap," said Mrs. Moseley; "s'pose 'tis as cheap as
+dirt? Come, my love, this dinner shan't cost you nothink; come and
+eat. Don't you see that the poor little man there is fit to cry?"
+
+"And nothink could be cheaper than dirt," said Maurice, cheering up.
+"I'm so glad as this beautiful, delicious dinner is as cheap as dirt."
+
+"Now we'll say grace," said Mrs. Moseley.
+
+She folded her hands and looked up.
+
+"Lord Jesus, bless this food to me and to Thy little ones, and use
+us all to Thy glory."
+
+Her eyes were shut while she was speaking; when she opened them she
+felt almost startled by the look Cecile had given her. A look of
+wonder, of question, of appeal.
+
+"You want to ask me some'ut, dear?" she said gently to the child.
+
+"Oh, yes! oh, yes!"
+
+"Well, I'm very busy now, and I'll be busy all the afternoon. But we
+has tea at six, and arter tea my man 'ull play wid Maurice, and you
+shall sit at my knee and ask me what you like."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+CECILE GIVES HER HEART.
+
+
+It was thus, sitting at Mrs. Moseley's knee in that snug kitchen,
+that Cecile got her great question answered. It was Mrs. Moseley who
+explained to the longing, wondering child, what Jesus the Guide would
+do, who Jesus the Guide really was. It was Mrs. Moseley who told
+Cecile what a glorious future she had before her, and how safe her
+life down in this world really was.
+
+And Cecile listened, half glad, half sorry, but, if the truth must
+be known, dimly understanding. For Cecile, sweet as her nature was
+had slow perceptions.
+
+She was eight years old, and in her peculiar, half English, half
+foreign life, she had never before heard anything of true religion.
+All the time Mrs. Moseley was speaking, she listened with bright eyes
+and flushed cheeks. But when the sweet old story came to an end,
+Cecile burst into tears.
+
+"Oh! I'm glad and I'm sorry," she sobbed; "I wanted a real, real
+guide. I'm glad as the story's quite true, but I wanted someone to
+hold my hand, and to carry Maurice when he's ever so tired. I'm glad
+and sorry."
+
+"But I'm not sorry," said Maurice, who was lying full length on the
+hearth-rug, and listening attentively. "I'm glad, I am--and I'd like
+to die; I'd much rather die than go south."
+
+"Oh, Maurice!" said Cecile.
+
+"Yes, Cecile. I'd much rather die. I like what that kind woman says
+about heaven, and I never did want to walk all that great way. Do
+Jesus have little boys as small as me in heaven, Mrs. Moseley, ma'am?"
+
+"Lord bless the child. Yes, my sweet lamb. Why, there's new-born
+babes up there; and I had a little un, he wor a year younger nor you.
+But Jesus took him there; it near broke my heart, but he went there."
+
+"Then I'll go too," said Maurice. "I'll not go south; I'll go to
+heaven."
+
+"Bless the bonnie children both," said Mrs. Moseley softly under her
+breath. She laid her hand on Cecile's head, who was gazing at her
+little brother in a sort of wonder and consternation. Then the good
+woman rose to get supper.
+
+The next day ushered in the most wonderful Sunday Cecile had ever
+spent. In the first place, this little girl, who had been so many
+years of her little life in our Christian England, went to church. In
+her father's time, no one had ever thought of so employing part of
+their Sunday. The sweet bells sounded all around, but they fell on
+unheeding ears. Cecile's stepmother, too, was far too busy working
+for Lovedy to have time for God's house, and when the children went
+down to Warren's Grove, though Lydia Purcell regularly Sunday after
+Sunday put on her best bonnet, and neat black silk gown, and went
+book in hand into the simple village church, it had never occurred to
+her to take the orphan children with her. Therefore, when Mrs.
+Moseley said to Cecile and Maurice:
+
+"Now come and let me brush your hair, and make you tidy for church,"
+they were both surprised and excited. Maurice fretted a little at the
+thought of leaving Toby behind, but, on the whole, he was satisfied
+with the novelty of the proceeding.
+
+The two children sat very gravely hand in hand. The music delighted
+them, but the rest of the service was rather above their comprehension.
+
+Cecile, however, listened hard, taking in, in her slow, grave way,
+here a thought and there an idea.
+
+Mrs. Moseley watched the children as much as she listened to the
+sermon, and as she said afterward to her husband, she felt her heart
+growing full of them.
+
+The rest of the Sunday passed even more delightfully in Maurice's
+estimation. Mrs. Moseley's pudding was pronounced quite beyond praise
+by the little hungry boy, and after dinner Moseley showed him
+pictures, while Mrs. Moseley amused Cecile with some Bible stories.
+
+But a strange experience was to come to the impressionable Cecile
+later in the day.
+
+Quite late, when all the light had faded, and only the lamps were
+lit, and Maurice was sound asleep in his little bed in Mrs. Moseley's
+small closet, that good woman, taking the little girl's hand, said to
+her:
+
+"When we go to church we go to learn about Jesus. I took you to one
+kind of church this morning. I saw by yer looks, my little maid, as
+you were trying hard to understand. Now I will take you to another
+kind of church. A church wot ain't to call orthodox, and wot many
+speaks against, and I don't say as it ha'n't its abuses. But for all
+that, when Molly Moseley wants to be lifted clean off her feet into
+heaven, she goes there; so you shall come to-night with me, Cecile."
+
+All religious teaching was new to Cecile, and she gave her hand
+quite willingly to her kind friend.
+
+They went down into the cold and wet winter street, and presently,
+after a few moments' quick walking, found themselves in an immense,
+square-built hall. Galleries ran round it, and these galleries were
+furnished with chairs and benches. The whole body of the hall was
+also full of seats, and from the roof hung banners, with texts of
+Scripture printed on them, and the motto of the Salvation Army:
+
+_"Fire and Blood."_
+
+Cecile, living though she had done in its very midst had never heard
+of this great religious revival. To such as her, poor little ignorant
+lost lamb, it preached, but hitherto no message had reached her. She
+followed Mrs. Moseley, who seated herself on a bench in the front row
+of a gallery which was close to the platform. The space into which
+she and Cecile had to squeeze was very small, for the immense place
+was already full to overflowing.
+
+"We'll have three thousand to-night, see if we don't," said a thin-faced
+girl, bending over to Mrs. Moseley.
+
+"Oh, ma'am!" said another, who had a very worn, thin, but sweet
+face, "I've found such peace since I saw you last. I never could
+guess how good Jesus would be to me. Why, now as I'm converted, He
+never seems to leave my side for a minute. Oh! I do ache awful with
+this cough and pain in my chest, but I don't seem to mind it now, as
+Jesus is with me all day and all night."
+
+Another, nudging her, here said:
+
+"Do you know as Black Bess ha' bin converted too?"
+
+"Oh, praise the Lord!" said this girl, sinking back on her seat,
+being here interrupted by a most violent fit of coughing.
+
+The building filled and filled, until there was scarcely room to
+stand. A man passing Mrs. Moseley said:
+
+"'Tis a glorious gathering, all brought together by prayer and
+faith, all by prayer and faith."
+
+Mrs. Moseley took Cecile on her lap.
+
+"They'll sing in a moment, darling, and 'twill be all about your
+Guide, the blessed, blessed Jesus." And scarcely were the words out
+of her mouth, when the whole vast building rang again to the words:
+
+  "Come, let us join our cheerful songs:
+  Hallelujah to the Lamb who died on Mount Calvary.
+  Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! Amen."
+
+Line after line was sung exultantly, accompanied by a brass band.
+
+Immediately afterward a man fell on his knees and prayed most
+earnestly for a blessing on the meeting.
+
+Then came another hymn:
+
+  "I love thee in life, I love thee in death;
+  If ever I love thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."
+
+This hymn was also sung right through, and then, while a young
+sergeant went to fetch the colors, the whole great body of people
+burst into perfectly rapturous singing of the inspiriting words:
+
+  "The angels stand on the Hallelujah strand,
+  And sing their welcome home."
+
+"Oh! Maurice would like that," whispered Cecile as she leant up
+against Mrs. Moseley. She never forgot the chorus of that hymn, it
+was to come back to her with a thrill of great comfort in a dark day
+by and by. Mrs. Moseley held her hand firmly; she and her little
+charge were looking at a strange sight.
+
+There were three thousand faces, all intensely in earnest, all
+bearing marks of great poverty, many of great and cruel hardship
+--many, too, had the stamp of sin on their brows. That man looked like
+a drunken husband; that woman like a cruel mother. Here was a lad who
+made his living by stealing; here a girl, who would sink from this to
+worse. Not a well-dressed person in the whole place, not a soul who
+did not belong to the vast army of the very poor. But for all that,
+there was not one in this building who was not getting his heart
+stirred, not one who was not having the best of him awakened into at
+least a struggling life, and many, many poor and outcast as they
+were, had that indescribable look on their worn faces which only
+comes with "God's peace."
+
+A man got up to speak. He was pale and thin, and had long, sensitive
+fingers. He shut his eyes, clenched his hand, and began:
+
+"Bless thy word, Lord." This he repeated three times.
+
+The people caught it up, they shouted it through the galleries, all
+over the building. He waved his hand to stop them, then opening his
+eyes, he began:
+
+"I want to tell you about _Jesus_. Jesus is here tonight, He's
+down in this hall, He's walking about, He's going from one to another
+of you, He's knocking at your hearts. Brothers and sisters, the Lord
+Jesus is knocking at your hearts. Oh! I see His face, and 'tis very
+pale, 'tis very sad, 'tis all burdened with sadness. What makes it so
+sad? _Your sins_, your great, awful _black_ sins. Sometimes
+He smiles, and is pleased. When is that? That is when a young girl,
+or a boy, or even a little child, opens the door of the heart, and He
+can take that heart and make it His own, then the Lord Jesus is
+happy. Now, just listen! He is talking to an old woman, she is very
+old, her face is all wrinkled, her hands shake, she _must_ die
+soon, she can't live more than a year or so, the Lord Jesus is
+standing by her, and talking to her. He is saying, 'Give me thy
+heart, give me thy heart.'
+
+"She says she is so old and so wicked, she has been a bad wife, a
+bad mother, and bad friend; she is an awful drunkard.
+
+"'Never mind,' says Jesus, 'Give me thy heart, I'll forgive thee,
+poor sinner; I'll make that black heart white.'
+
+"Then she gives it to Him, and she is happy, and her whole face is
+changed, and she is not at all afraid to die.
+
+"Now, do you see that man? He is just out of prison. What was he in
+prison for? For beating his wife. Oh! what a villain, what a coward!
+How cruel he looks! Respectable people, and kind people, don't like
+to go near him, they are afraid of him. What a strong, brutal face he
+has! But the blessed Jesus isn't afraid. See, He is standing by this
+bad man, and He says, 'Give me thy heart.'
+
+"'Oh! go away,' says the man; 'do go away, my heart is too bad.'
+
+"I'll not go away without thy heart,' says Jesus; ''tis not too bad
+for me.'
+
+"And then the man, just because he can't help it, gives this heart,
+and hard as stone it is, to Jesus, and Jesus gives it back to him
+quite soft and tender, and there's no fear that _he_ will beat
+his wife again.
+
+"Now, look where Jesus is; standing by the side of a little child--of
+a little, young, tender child. That little heart has not had time
+to grow hard, and Jesus says, 'Give it to Me. I'll keep it soft
+always. It shall always be fit for the kingdom of heaven;' and the
+little child smiles, for she can't help it, and she gives her baby
+heart away at once. Oh! how glad Jesus is! What a beautiful sight!
+look at her face; is not it all sunshine? I think I see just such a
+little child there in front of me."
+
+Here the preacher paused, and pointed to Cecile, whose eyes,
+brilliant with excitement, were fixed on his face. She had been
+listening, drinking in, comprehending. Now when the preacher pointed
+to her, it was too much for the excitable child, she burst into tears
+and sobbed out:
+
+"Oh! I give my heart, I give my heart."
+
+"Blessings on thee, sweet lamb," came from several rough but kindly
+voices.
+
+Mrs. Moseley took her in her arms and carried her out. She saw
+wisely that she could bear no more.
+
+As they were leaving the hall, again there came a great burst of
+singing:
+
+  "I love Jesus, Hallelujah!
+  I love Jesus; yes, I do.
+  I love Jesus, He's my Saviour;
+  Jesus smiles and _loves me too_."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+"SUSIE."
+
+
+Cecile had never anything more to say to the Salvation Army. What
+lay behind the scenes, what must shock a more refined taste, never
+came to her knowledge. To her that fervent, passionate meeting seemed
+always like the very gate of heaven. To her the Jesus she had long
+been seeking had at last come, come close, and entered into her heart
+of hearts. She no longer regretted not seeing Him in the flesh; nay,
+a wonderful spiritual sight and faith seemed born in her, and she
+felt that this spiritual Christ was more suited to her need. She got
+up gravely the next morning; her journey was before her, and the
+Guide was there. There was no longer the least reason for delay, and
+it was much better that she, Maurice, and Toby should start for
+France, while they had a little money that they could lawfully spend.
+When she had got up and dressed herself, she resolved to try the new
+powerful weapon she had got in her hand. This weapon was prayer; the
+Guide who was so near needed no darkness to enable Him to listen to
+her. She did not kneel, she sat on the side of her tiny bed, and,
+while Maurice still slept, began to speak aloud her earnest need:
+
+"Jesus, I think it is hotter that me, and Maurice, and Toby should
+go to France while we have a little money left. Please, Jesus, if
+there is a man called Jography, will you help us to find him to-day,
+please?" Then she paused, and added slowly, being prompted by her new
+and great love, "But it must be just as you like, Jesus." After this
+prayer, Cecile resolved to wait in all day, for if there was a man
+called Jography, he would be sure to knock at the door during the
+day, and come in and say to Cecile that Jesus had sent him, and that
+he was ready to show her the way to France. Maurice, therefore, and
+Toby, went out together with Mrs. Moseley, and Cecile stayed at home
+and watched, but though she, watched all day long, and her heart beat
+quickly many times, there was never any sound coming up the funny
+stairs; the rope was never pulled, nor the boards lifted, to let in
+any one of the name of Jography. Cecile, instead of having her faith
+shaken by this, came to the wise resolution that Jography was not a
+man at all. She now felt that she must apply to Mrs. Moseley, and
+wondered how far she dare trust her with her secret.
+
+"You know, perhaps, ma'am," she began that evening, when Moseley had
+started on his night duty, and Maurice being sound asleep in bed, she
+found herself quite alone with the little woman, "You know, perhaps,
+ma'am, that we two little children and our dog have got to go on a
+very long journey--a very, very long journey indeed."
+
+"No, I don't know nothink about it, Cecile," said Mrs. Moseley in
+her cheerful voice. "What we knows, my man and me, is, that you two
+little mites has got to stay yere until we finds some good orphan
+school to send you to, and you has no call to trouble about payment,
+deary, for we're only too glad and thankful to put any children into
+our dead child's place and into Susie's place."
+
+"But we can't stay," said Cecile; "we can't stay, though we'd like
+to ever so. I'm only a little girl. But there's a great deal put on
+me--a great, great care. I don't mind it now, 'cause of Jesus. But I
+mustn't neglect it, must I?"
+
+"No, darling: Only tell Mammie Moseley what it is."
+
+"Oh! May I call you that?"
+
+"Yes; for sure, love. Now tell me what's yer care, Cecile, honey."
+
+"I can't, Mammie, I can't, though I'd like to. I had to tell Jane
+Parsons. I had to tell her, and she was faithful. But I think I'd
+better not tell even you again. Only 'tis a great care, and it means
+a long journey, and going south. It means all that much for me, and
+Maurice, and Toby."
+
+"Going south? You mean to Devonshire, I suppose, child?"
+
+"I don't know. Is there a place called Devonshire there, ma'am? But
+we has to go to France--away down to the south of France--to the
+Pyrenees."
+
+"Law, child! Why, you don't never mean as you're going to cross the
+seas?"
+
+"Is that the way to France, Mammie Moseley? Oh! Do you _really_
+know the way?"
+
+"There's no other way that I ever hear tell on, Cecile. Oh, my dear,
+you must not do that!"
+
+"But it's just there I've got to go, ma'am; and me and Maurice are a
+little French boy and girl. We'll be sure to feel all right in
+France; and when we get to the Pyrenees we'll feel at home. 'Tis
+there our father lived, and our own mother died, and me and Maurice
+were born there. I don't see how we can help being at home in the
+Pyrenees."
+
+"That may be, child; and it may be right to send a letter to yer
+people, and if they wants you two, and will treat you well, to let
+you go back to them. But to have little orphans like you wandering
+about in France all alone, ain't to be thought on, ain't to be
+thought on, Cecile."
+
+"But whether my people write for me and Maurice or not, ma'am, I
+must go," said Cecile in a low, firm voice. "I must, because I
+promised--I promised one that is dead."
+
+"Well, my darling, how can I help you if you won't _conwide_ in
+me? Oh, Cecile! you're for all the world just like what Susie was;
+only I hopes as you won't treat us as bad."
+
+"Susie was the girl who slept in our little bedroom," said Cecile.
+"Was she older than me, ma'am? and was she yer daughter, ma'am?"
+
+"No, Cecile. Susie was nothink to me in the flesh, though, God
+knows, I loved her like a child of my own. God never gave me a bonnie
+girl to love and care for, Cecile. I had one boy. Oh! I did worship
+him, and when Jesus tuk him away and made an angel of him, I thought
+I'd go near wild. Well, we won't talk on it. He died at five years
+old. But I don't mind telling you of Susie."
+
+"Oh! please, Mammie!"
+
+"It was a year or more after my little Charlie wor tuk away," said
+Mrs. Moseley. "My heart wor still sore and strange. I guessed as I'd
+never have another baby, and I wor so bad I could not bear to look at
+children. As I wor walking over Blackfriars Bridge late one evening I
+heard a girl crying. I knew by her cry as she was a very young girl,
+nearly a child; and, God forgive me! for a moment I thought as I'd
+hurry on, and not notice her, for I did dread seeing children.
+However, her cry was very bitter, and what do you think it was?
+
+"'Oh, Mammie, Mammie, Mammie!'
+
+"I couldn't stand that; it went through me as clean as a knife. I
+ran up to her and said: 'What's yer trouble, honey?'
+
+"She turned at once and threw her arms round me, and clung to me,
+nearly in convulsions with weeping.
+
+"'Oh! take me to my mother,' she sobbed. 'I want my mother.'
+
+"'Yes, deary, tell me where she lives,' I said.
+
+"But the bonnie dear could only shake her head and say she did not
+know; and she seemed so exhausted and spent that I just brought her
+home and made her up a bed in your little closet without more ado.
+She seemed quite comforted that I should take to her, and left off
+crying for her mother. I asked her the next day a lot of questions,
+but to everything she said she did not know. She did not know where
+her mother lived now. She would rather not see her mother, now she
+was not so lonely. She would rather not tell her real name. I might
+call her Susie. She had been in France, but she did not like it, and
+she had got back to England. She had wandered back, and she was very
+desolate, and she _had_ wanted her mother dreadfully, but not
+now. Her mother had been bad to her, and she did not wish for her now
+that I was so good. To hear her talk you'd think as she was hard, but
+at night John and I 'ud hear her sobbing often and often in her
+little bed, and naming of her mammie. Never did I come across a more
+willful bit of flesh and blood. But she had that about her as jest
+took everyone by storm. My husband and I couldn't make enough on her,
+and we both jest made her welcome to be a child of our own. She was
+nothing really but a child, a big, fair English child. She said as
+she wor twelve years old. She was lovely, fair as a lily, and with
+long, yellow hair."
+
+"Fair, and with yellow hair?" said Cecile, suddenly springing to her
+feet. "Yes, and with little teeth like pearls, and eyes as blue as
+the sky."
+
+"Why, Cecile, did you know her?" said Mrs. Moseley. "Yes, yes,
+that's jest her. I never did see bluer eyes."
+
+"And was her name Lovedy--Lovedy Joy?" asked Cecile.
+
+"I don't know, child; she wouldn't tell her real name; she was only
+jest Susie to us."
+
+"Oh, ma'am! Dear Mrs. Moseley, ma'am, where's Susie now?"
+
+"Ah, child! that's wot I can't tell you; I wishes as I could. One
+day Susie went out and never come back again. She used to talk o'
+France, same as you talk o' France, so perhaps she went there;
+anyhow, she never come back to us who loved her. We fretted sore, and
+we hadvertised in the papers, but we never, never heard another word
+of Susie, and that's seven years or more gone by."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+THE TRIALS OF SECRECY.
+
+
+The next day Mrs. Moseley went round to see her clergyman, Mr.
+Danvers, to consult him about Cecile and Maurice. They puzzled her,
+these queer little French children. Maurice was, it is true, nothing
+but a rather willful, and yet winsome, baby boy; but Cecile had
+character. Cecile was the gentlest of the gentle, but she was firm as
+the finest steel. Mrs. Moseley owned to feeling even a little vexed
+with Cecile, she was so determined in her intention of going to
+France, and so equally determined not to tell what her motive in
+going there was. She said over and over with a solemn shake of her
+wise little head that she must go there, that a heavy weight was laid
+upon her, that she was under a promise to the dead. Mrs. Moseley,
+remembering how Susie had run away, felt a little afraid. Suppose
+Cecile, too, disappeared? It was so easy for children to disappear in
+London. They were just as much lost as if they were dead to their
+friends, and nobody ever heard of them again. Mrs. Moseley could not
+watch the children all day; at last in her despair she determined to
+appeal to her clergyman.
+
+"I don't know what to make of the little girl," she said in
+conclusion, "she reminds me awful much of Susie. She's rare and
+winsome; I think she have a deeper nature than my poor lost Susie,
+but she's lovable like her. And it have come over me, Mr. Danvers, as
+she knows Susie, for, though she is the werry closest little thing I
+ever come across, her face went quite white when I telled her about
+my poor lost girl, and she axed me quite piteous and eager if her
+name wor Lovedy Joy."
+
+"Lovedy is a very uncommon name." said Mr. Danvers. "You had no
+reason, Mrs. Moseley, to suppose that was Susan's name?"
+
+"She never let it out to me as it wor, sir. Oh, ain't it a trial, as
+folk _will_ be so close and _contrary_."
+
+Mr. Danvers smiled.
+
+"I will go and see this little Cecile," he said, "and I must try to
+win her confidence."
+
+The good clergyman did go the next afternoon, and finding Cecile all
+alone, he endeavored to get her to confide in him. To a certain
+extent he was successful, the little girl told him all she could
+remember of her French father and her English stepmother. All about
+her queer old world life with Maurice and their dog in the deserted
+court back of Bloomsbury. She also told him of Warren's Grove, and of
+how the French cousin no longer sent that fifty pounds a year which
+was to pay Lydia Purcell, how in consequence she and Maurice were to
+go to the Union, and how Toby was to be hung; she said that rather
+than submit to _that_, she and Maurice had resolved to run away.
+She even shyly and in conclusion confided some of her religious
+doubts and difficulties to the kind clergyman. And she said with a
+frank sweet light in her blue eyes that she was quite happy now, for
+she had found out all about the Guide she needed. But about her
+secret, her Russia-leather purse, her motive in going to France,
+Cecile was absolutely silent.
+
+"I must go to France," she said, "and I must not tell why; 'tis a
+great secret, and it would be wrong to tell. I'd much rather tell
+you, sir, and Mrs. Moseley, but I must not. I did tell Jane Parsons,
+I could not help that, but I must try to keep my great secret to
+myself for the future."
+
+It was impossible not to respect the little creature's silence as
+much as her confidence.
+
+Mr. Danvers said, in conclusion, "I will not press for your story,
+my little girl; but it is only right that I as a clergyman, and
+someone much older than you, should say, that no matter _what_
+promise you are under, it would be very wrong for you and your baby
+brother to go alone to France now. Whatever you may feel called on to
+do when you are grown up, such a step would now be wrong. I will
+write to your French cousin, and ask him if he is willing to give you
+and Maurice a home; in which case I must try to find someone who will
+take you two little creatures back to your old life in the Pyrenees.
+Until you hear from me again, it is your duty to stay here."
+
+"Me and Maurice, we asked Mammie Moseley for a night's lodging,"
+said Cecile. "Will it be many nights before you hear from our cousin
+in France? Because me and Maurice, we have very little money, please,
+sir."
+
+"I will see to the money part," said Mr. Danvers.
+
+"And please, sir," asked Cecile, as he rose to leave, "is Jography a
+thing or a person?"
+
+"Geography!" said the clergyman, laughing. "You shall come to school
+to-morrow morning, my little maid, and learn something of geography."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+"A LETTER."
+
+
+Mr. Danvers was as good as his word and wrote by the next post to
+the French cousin. He wrote a pathetic and powerful appeal to this
+man, describing the destitute children in terms that might well move
+his heart. But whether it so happened that the French relation had no
+heart to be moved, whether he was weary of an uncongenial subject, or
+was ill, and so unable to reply--whatever the reason, good Mr.
+Danvers never got any answer to his letter.
+
+Meanwhile Cecile and Maurice went to school by day, and sometimes
+also by night. At school both children learned a great many things.
+Cecile found out what geography was, and her teacher, who was a very
+good-natured young woman, did not refuse her earnest request to learn
+all she could about France.
+
+Cecile had long ago been taught by her own dead father to read, and
+she could write a very little. She was by no means what would be
+considered a smart child. Her ideas came slowly--she took in
+gradually. There were latent powers of some strength in the little
+brain, and what she once learned she never forgot, but no amount of
+school teaching could come to Cecile quickly. Maurice, on the
+contrary, drank in his school accomplishments as greedily and easily
+as a little thirsty flower drinks in light and water. He found no
+difficulty in his lessons, and was soon quite the pride of the infant
+school where he was placed.
+
+The change in his life was doing him good. He was a willful little
+creature, and the regular employment was taming him, and Mrs.
+Moseley's motherly care, joined to a slight degree of wholesome
+discipline, was subduing the little faults of selfishness which his
+previous life as Cecile's sole charge could not but engender.
+
+It is to be regretted that Toby, hitherto, perhaps, the most perfect
+character of the three, should in these few weeks of prosperity
+degenerate the most. Having no school to attend, and no care whatever
+on his mind, this dog decided to give himself up to enjoyment. The
+weather was most bitterly cold. It was quite unnecessary for him to
+accompany Cecile and Maurice to school. _His_ education had long
+ago been finished. So he selected to stay in the warm kitchen, and
+lie as close to the stove as possible. He made dubious and uncertain
+friends with the cat. He slept a great deal, he ate a great deal. As
+the weeks flew on, he became fat, lazy-looking, and uninteresting.
+Were it not for subsequent and previous conduct he would not have
+been a dog worth writing about. So bad is prosperity for some!
+
+But prosperous days were not the will of their heavenly Father for
+these little pilgrims just yet, and their brief and happy sojourn
+with kind Mrs. Moseley was to come to a rather sudden end.
+
+Cecile, believing fully in the good clergyman's words, was waiting
+patiently for that letter from France, which was to enable Maurice,
+Toby, and herself to travel there in the very best way. Her little
+heart was at rest. During the six weeks she remained with Mrs.
+Moseley, she gained great strength both of body and mind.
+
+She must find Lovedy. But surely Mr. Danvers was right and if she
+had a grown person to go with her and her little brother, from how
+many perils would they not be saved? She waited, therefore, quite
+quietly for the letter that never came; meanwhile employing herself
+in learning all she could about France. She was more sure than ever
+now that Lovedy was there, for something seemed to tell her that
+Lovedy and Susie were one. Of course this beautiful Susie had gone
+back to France, and once there, Cecile would quickly find her. She
+had now a double delight and pleasure in the hope of finding Lovedy
+Joy. She would give her her mother's message, and her mother's
+precious purse of gold. But she could do more than that. Lovedy's own
+mother was dead. But there was another woman who cared for Lovedy
+with a mother's warm and tender heart. Another woman who mourned for
+the lost Susie she could never see, but for whom she kept a little
+room all warm and bright. Cecile pictured over and over how tenderly
+she would tell this poor, wandering girl of the love waiting for her,
+and longing for her, and of how she herself would bring her back to
+Mammie Moseley.
+
+Things were in this state, and the children and their adopted
+parents were all very happy together, when the change that I have
+spoken of came.
+
+It was a snowy and bleak day in February, and the little party were
+all at breakfast, when a quick and, it must be owned, very unfamiliar
+step was heard running up the attic stairs. The rope was pulled with
+a vigorous tug, and a postman's hand thrust in a letter.
+
+"'Tis that letter from foreign parts, as sure as sure, never welcome
+it," said Moseley, swallowing his coffee with a great gulp, and
+rising to secure the rare missive.
+
+Cecile felt herself growing pale, and a lump rising in her throat.
+But Mrs. Moseley, seizing the letter, and turning it over, exclaimed
+excitedly:
+
+"Why, sakes alive, John, it ain't a foreign letter at all; it have
+the Norwich post-mark on it. I do hope as there ain't no bad news of
+mother."
+
+"Well, open it and see, wife," answered the practical husband. The
+wife did so.
+
+Alas! her fears were confirmed. A very old mother down in the
+country was pronounced dying, and Mrs. Moseley must start without an
+hour's delay if she would see her alive.
+
+Then ensued bustle and confusion. John Moseley was heard to mutter
+that it came at a queer ill-conwenient time, Mr. Danvers being away,
+and a deal more than or'nary put in his wife's hands. However, there
+was no help for it. The dying won't wait for other people's
+convenience. Cecile helped Mrs. Moseley to pack her small carpet-bag.
+Crying bitterly, the loving-hearted woman bade both children a tender
+good-by. If her mother really died, she would only remain for the
+funeral. At the farthest she would be back at the end of a week. In
+the meantime, Cecile was to take care of Moseley for her. By the
+twelve o'clock train she was off to Norforkshire. She little guessed
+that those bright and sweet faces which had made her home so homelike
+for the last two months were not to greet her on her return. Maurice
+cried bitterly at losing Mammie Moseley. Cecile went to school with a
+strangely heavy heart. Her only consolation was in the hope that her
+good friend would quickly return. But that hope was dashed to the
+ground the very next morning. For Mrs. Moseley, writing to her
+husband, informed him that her old mother had rallied; that the
+doctor thought she might live for a week or so longer, but that she
+had found her in so neglected and sad a condition that she had not
+the heart to leave her again. Moseley must get someone to take up her
+church work for her, for she could not leave her mother while she
+lived.
+
+It was on the very afternoon of this day that Cecile, walking slowly
+home with Maurice from school, and regretting very vehemently to her
+little brother the great loss they both had in the absence of dear,
+dear Mammie Moseley, was startled by a loud and frightened
+exclamation from her little brother.
+
+"Oh, Cecile! Oh, look, look!"
+
+Maurice pointed with an eager finger to a woman who, neatly dressed
+from head to foot in black, was walking in front of them.
+
+"'Tis--'tis Aunt Lydia Purcell--'tis wicked Aunt Lydia Purcell,"
+said Maurice.
+
+Cecile felt her very heart standing still; her breath seemed to
+leave her--her face felt cold. Before she could stir a step or utter
+an exclamation the figure in black turned quickly and faced the
+children. No doubt who she was. No doubt whose cold gray eyes were
+fixed on them. Cecile and Maurice, huddling close together, gazed
+silently. Aunt Lydia came on. She looked at the little pair, but when
+she came up to them, passed on without a word or sign of apparent
+recognition.
+
+"Oh! come home, Cecile, come home," said Maurice.
+
+They were now in the street where the Moseleys lived, and as they
+turned in at the door, Cecile looked round. Lydia Purcell was
+standing at the corner and watching them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+STARTING ON THE GREAT JOURNEY.
+
+
+Cecile and Maurice ran quickly upstairs, pulled the rope with a
+will, and got into the Moseleys' attic.
+
+"We are safe now," said the little boy, who had not seen Lydia
+watching them from the street corner.
+
+Cecile, panting after her rapid run, and with her hand pressed to
+her heart, stood quiet for a moment, then she darted into their snug
+little attic bedroom, shut the door, and fell on her knees.
+
+"Lord Jesus," she said aloud, "wicked Aunt Lydia Purcell has seen
+us, and we must go away at once. Don't forget to guide me and Maurice
+and Toby."
+
+She said this little prayer in a trembling voice. She felt there was
+not a moment to lose; any instant Aunt Lydia might arrive. She flung
+the bedclothes off the bed, and thrusting her hand into a hole in the
+mattress, pulled out the Russia-leather purse. Joined to its former
+contents was now six shillings and sixpence in silver. This money was
+the change over from Maurice's half sovereign.
+
+Cecile felt that it was a very little sum to take them to France,
+but there was no help for it. She and Maurice and Toby must manage on
+this sum to walk to Dover. She knew enough of geography now to be
+sure that Dover was the right place to go to.
+
+She slipped the change from the half sovereign into a sixpenny purse
+which Moseley had given her on Christmas Day. The precious Russia-
+leather purse was restored to its old hiding place in the bosom of
+her frock. Then, giving a mournful glance round the little chamber
+which she was about to quit, she returned to Maurice.
+
+"Don't take off your hat, Maurice, darling; we have got to go."
+
+"To go!" said Maurice, opening his brown eyes wide. "Are we to leave
+our nice night's lodging? Is that what you mean? No, Cecile," said
+the little boy, seating himself firmly on the floor. "I don't intend
+to go. Mammie Moseley said I was to be here when she came back, and I
+mean to be here."
+
+"But, oh! Maurice, Maurice, I must go south, Will you let me go
+alone? Can you live without me, Maurice, darling?"
+
+"No, Cecile, you shall not go. You shall stay here too. We need
+neither of us go south. It's much, much nicer here."
+
+Cecile considered a moment. This opposition from Maurice puzzled
+her. She had counted on many obstacles, but this came from an
+unlooked-for quarter.
+
+Moments were precious. Each instant she expected to hear the step
+she dreaded on the attic stairs. Without Maurice, however, she could
+not stir. Resolving to fight for her purse of gold, with even life
+itself if necessary, she sat down by her little brother on the floor.
+
+"Maurice," she said--as she spoke, she felt herself growing quite
+old and grave--"Maurice, you know that ever since our stepmother
+died, I have told you that me and you must go on a long, long
+journey. We must go south. You don't like to go. Nor I don't like it
+neither, Maurice--but that don't matter. In the book Mrs. Moseley
+gave me all about Jesus, it says that people, and even little
+children, have to do lots of things they don't like. But if they are
+brave, and do the hard things, Jesus the good Guide, is _so_
+pleased with them. Maurice, if you come with me to-day, you will be a
+real, brave French boy. You know how proud you are of being a French
+boy."
+
+"Yes," answered Maurice, pouting his pretty rosy lips a little, "I
+don't want to be an English boy. I want to be French, same as father.
+But it won't make me English to stay in our snug night's lodging,
+where everything is nice and warm, and we have plenty to eat. Why
+should we go south to-day, Cecile? Does Jesus want us to go just now?"
+
+"I will tell you," said Cecile; "I will trust you, Maurice. Maurice,
+when our stepmother was dying, she gave me something very precious
+--something very, very precious. Maurice, if I tell you what it was,
+will you promise never, never, never to tell anybody else? Will you
+look me in the face, and promise me that, true and faithful, Maurice?"
+
+"True and faithful," answered Maurice, "true and faithful, Cecile.
+Cecile, what did our stepmother give you to hide?"
+
+"Oh, Maurice! I dare not tell you all. It is a purse--a purse full,
+full of money, and I have to take this money to somebody away in
+France. Maurice, you saw Aunt Lydia Purcell just now in the street,
+and she saw me and you. Once she took that money away from me, and
+Jane Parsons brought it back again. And now she saw us, and she saw
+where we live. She looked at us as we came in at this door, and any
+moment she may come here. Oh, Maurice! if she comes here, and if she
+steals my purse of gold, I _shall die_."
+
+Here Cecile's fortitude gave way. Still seated on the floor, she
+covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
+
+Her tears, however, did what her words could not do. Maurice's
+tender baby heart held out no longer. He stood up and said valiantly:
+
+"Cecile, Cecile, we'll leave our night's lodging. We'll go away.
+Only who's to tell Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley?"
+
+"I'll write," said Cecile; "I can hold my pen pretty well now. I'll
+write a little note."
+
+She went to the table where she knew some seldom-used note paper was
+kept, selected a gay pink sheet, and dipping her pen in the ink, and
+after a great deal of difficulty, and some blots, which, indeed, were
+made larger by tear-drops, accomplished a few forlorn little words.
+This was the little note, ill-spelt and ill-written, which greeted
+Moseley on his return home that evening:
+
+"Dear Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley: The little children you gave
+so many nights' lodgings to have gone away. We have gone south, but
+there is no use looking for us, for Cecile must do what she promised.
+Mammie Moseley, if Cecile can't do what she promised she will die.
+The little children would not have gone now when mammie was away, but
+a great, great danger came, and we had not a moment to stay. Some
+day, Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley, me and Maurice will come back
+and then look for a great surprise. Now, good-by. Your most grateful
+little children,
+
+"CECILE--MAURICE.
+
+"Toby has to come with us, please, and he is most obliged for all
+kindness."
+
+This little note made Moseley dash his hand hastily more than once
+before his eyes, then catching up his hat he rushed off to the
+nearest police-station, but though all steps were immediately taken,
+the children were not found. Mrs. Moseley came home and cried nearly
+as sorely for them as she did for her dead mother.
+
+"John," she said, "I'll never pick up no more strays--never, never.
+I'll never be good to no more strays. You mark my words, John Moseley."
+
+In answer to this, big John Moseley smiled and patted his wife's
+cheek. It is needless to add that he knew her better than to believe
+even her own words on that subject.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THIRD PART.
+
+THE GREAT JOURNEY.
+
+
+
+  "I know not the way I am going',
+  But well do I know my Guide."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+ON THE SAND HILL.
+
+
+There is an old saying which tells us that there is a special
+Providence over the very young and the very old. This old-world
+saying was specially proved in the cases of Maurice and Cecile. How
+two creatures so young, so inexperienced, should ever find themselves
+in a foreign land, must have remained a mystery to those who did not
+hold this faith.
+
+Cecile was eight, Maurice six years old; the dog, of no age in
+particular, but with a vast amount of canine wisdom, was with them.
+He had walked with them all the way from London to Dover. He had
+slept curled up close to them in two or three barns, where they had
+passed nights free of expense. He had jumped up behind them into
+loaded carts or wagons when they were fortunate enough to get a lift,
+and when they reached Dover he had wandered with them through the
+streets, and had found himself by their sides on the quay, and in
+some way also on board the boat which was to convey them to France.
+And now they were in France, two miles outside Calais, on a wild,
+flat, and desolate plain. But neither this fact nor the weather, for
+it was a raw and bitter winter's day, made any difference, at least
+at first, to Cecile. All lesser feelings, all minor discomforts, were
+swallowed up in the joyful knowledge that they were in France, in the
+land where Lovedy was sure to be, in their beloved father's country.
+They were in France, their own _belle_ France! Little she knew
+or recked, poor child! how far was this present desolate France from
+her babyhood's sunny home. Having conquered the grand difficulty of
+getting there, she saw no other difficulties in her path just now.
+
+"Oh, Maurice! we are safe in our own country," she said, in a tone
+of ecstasy, to the little boy.
+
+Maurice, however,--cold, tired, still seasick from his passage
+across the Channel,--saw nothing delightful in this fact.
+
+"I'm very hungry, Cecile," he said, "and I'm very cold. How soon
+shall we find breakfast and a night's lodging?"
+
+"Maurice, dear, it is quite early in the day; we don't want to think
+of a night's lodging for many hours yet."
+
+"But we passed through a town, a great big town," objected Maurice;
+"why did you not look for a night's lodging there, Cecile?"
+
+"'Twasn't in my 'greement, Maurice, darling. I promised, promised
+faithful when I went on this search, that we'd stay in little
+villages and small tiny inns, and every place looked big in that
+town. But we'll soon find a place, Maurice, and then you shall have
+breakfast. Toby will take us to a village very soon."
+
+All Toby's temporary degeneration of character had vanished since
+his walk to Dover. He was as alert as ever in his care of Maurice, as
+anxiously solicitous for Cecile's benefit, and had also developed a
+remarkable and valuable faculty for finding small towns and out-of-
+the-way villages, where Cecile's slender store of money could be
+spent to the best advantage.
+
+On board the small boat which had brought the children across the
+Channel, Cecile's piquant and yet pathetic face had won the captain's
+good favor. He had not only given all three their passage for
+nothing, but had got the little girl to confide sufficiently in
+him to find out that she carried money with her. He asked her if
+it was French or English money, and on her taking out her precious
+Russia-leather purse from its hiding-place, and producing with
+trembling hands an English sovereign, he had changed it into small
+and useful French money, and had tried to make the child comprehend
+the difference between the two. When they got to Calais he managed to
+land the children without the necessity of a passport, of which, of
+course, Cecile knew nothing. What more he might have done was never
+revealed, for Cecile, Maurice, and Toby were quickly lost sight of in
+the bustle on the quay.
+
+The little trio walked off--Cecile, at least, feeling very
+triumphant--and never paused, until obliged to do so, owing to
+Maurice's weariness.
+
+"We will find a village at once now, Maurice," said his little
+sister. She called Toby, whistled to him, gave him to understand what
+they wanted, and the dog, with a short bark and glance of
+intelligence, ran on in front. He sniffed the air, he smelt the
+ground. Presently he seemed to know all about it, for he set off
+soberly in a direct line; and after half an hour's walking, brought
+the children to a little hamlet, of about a dozen poor-looking
+houses. In front of a tiny inn he drew up and sat down on his
+haunches, tired, but well pleased.
+
+The door of the little wayside inn stood open. Cecile and Maurice
+entered at once. A woman in a tall peasant's cap and white apron came
+forward and demanded in French what she could serve the little dears
+with. Cecile, looking helpless, asked in English for bread and milk.
+Of course the woman could not understand a word. She held up her
+hands and proclaimed the stupendous fact that the children were
+undoubtedly English to her neighbors, then burst into a fresh volley
+of French.
+
+And here first broke upon poor little Cecile the stupendous fact
+that they were in a land where they could not speak a word of the
+language. She stood helpless, tears filling her sweet blue eyes. A
+group gathered speedily round the children, but all were powerless to
+assist. It never occurred to anyone that the helpless little
+wanderers might be hungry. It was Maurice at last who saw a way out
+of the difficulty. He felt starving, and he saw rolls of bread within
+his reach.
+
+"Stupid people!" said the little boy. He got on a stool, and helped
+himself to the longest of the fresh rolls. This he broke into three
+parts, keeping one himself, giving one to Cecile, and the other to
+Toby.
+
+There was a simultaneous and hearty laugh from the rough party. The
+peasant proprietor's brow cleared. She uttered another exclamation
+and darted into her kitchen, from which she returned in a moment with
+two steaming bowls of hot and delicious soup. She also furnished Toby
+with a bone.
+
+Cecile, when they had finished their meal, paid a small French coin
+for the food, and then the little pilgrims left the village.
+
+"The sun is shining brightly," said Cecile. "Maurice, me and you
+will sit under that sand hill for a little bit, and think what is
+best to be done."
+
+In truth the poor little girl's brave heart was sorely puzzled and
+perplexed. If they could not speak to the people, how ever could they
+find Lovedy? and if they did not find Lovedy, of what use was it
+their being in France? Then how could she get cheap food and cheap
+lodgings? and how would their money hold out? They were small and
+desolate children. It did not seem at all like their father's
+country. Why had she come? Could she ever, ever succeed in her
+mission? For a moment the noble nature was overcome, and the bright
+faith clouded.
+
+"Oh, Maurice!" said Cecile, "I wish--I wish Jesus our Guide was not
+up in heaven. I wish He was down on earth, and would come with us. I
+know _He_ could speak French."
+
+"Oh! that don't matter--that don't," answered Maurice, who, cheered
+by his good breakfast, felt like a different boy. "I'll always just
+take things, and then they'll know what I mean. The French don't
+matter, Cecile. But what I wish is that we might be in heaven--me and
+you and Toby at once--for if this is South, I don't like it, Cecile.
+I wish Jesus the Guide would take us to heaven at once."
+
+"We must find Lovedy first," said Cecile, "and then--and then--yes,
+I'd like, too, to die and go--there."
+
+"I know nothing about dying," answered Maurice; "I only know I want
+to go to heaven. I liked what Mammie Moseley told me about heaven.
+You are never cold there and never hungry. Now I'm beginning to be
+quite cold again, and in an hour or so I shall be as hungry as ever.
+I don't think nothing of your South, Cecile; 'tis a nasty place, I
+think."
+
+"We have not got South yet, darling. Oh, Maurice," with a wan little
+smile, "if even _jography_ was a person, as I used to think
+before I went to school."
+
+"What is that about jography and school, young 'un," said suddenly,
+at that moment over their very heads, a gay English voice, and the
+next instant, a tall boy of about fourteen, with a little fiddle
+slung over his shoulder, came round the sand hill, and sat down by
+the children's side.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+JOGRAPHY.
+
+
+Cecile and Maurice had not only gone to school by day, but at Mr.
+Danvers' express wish had for a short part of their stay in London
+attended a small and excellent night-school, which was entirely
+taught by deaconesses who worked under the good clergyman.
+
+To this same night-school came, not regularly, but by fits and
+starts, a handsome lad of fourteen--a lad with brilliant black eyes,
+and black hair flung off an open brow. He was poorly dressed, and his
+young smooth cheeks were hollow for want of sufficient food. When he
+was in his best attire, and in his gayest humor, he came with a
+little fiddle swung across his arm.
+
+But sometimes he made his appearance, sad-eyed, and without his
+fiddle. On these occasions, his feet were also very often destitute
+of either shoes or stockings.
+
+He was a troublesome boy, decidedly unmanageable, and an irregular
+scholar, sometimes, absenting himself for a whole week at a time.
+
+Still he was a favorite. He had a bright way and a winsome smile. He
+never teased the little ones, and sometimes on leaving school he
+would play a bright air or two so skilfully and with such airy grace,
+on his little cracked fiddle, that the school children capered round
+in delight. The deconesses often tried to get at his history but he
+never would tell it; nor would he, even on those days when he had to
+appear without either fiddle, or shoes, or stockings, complain of want.
+
+On the evening when Cecile first went to this night-school, a pretty
+young lady of twenty called her to her side, and asked her what she
+would like best to learn?
+
+"In this night-school," she added, "for those children at least, who
+go regularly to day-school, we try as much as possible to consult
+their taste, so what do you like best for me to teach you, dear?"
+
+Cecile, opening her blue eyes wide, answered: "Jography, please,
+ma'am. I'd rayther learn jography than anything else in all the world."
+
+"But why?" asked the deaconess, surprised at this answer.
+
+"'Cause I'm a little French girl, please, teacher. Me and Maurice
+we're both French, and 'tis very important indeed for me to know the
+way to France, and about France, when we get there; and Jography
+tells all about it, don't it, teacher?"
+
+"Why, yes, I suppose so," said the young teacher, laughing. So
+Cecile got her first lesson in geography, and a pair of bold,
+handsome black eyes often glanced almost wistfully in her direction
+as she learned. That night, at the door of the night-school, the boy
+with the fiddle came up to Cecile and Maurice.
+
+"I say, little Jography," he exclaimed, "you ain't really French, be
+you?"
+
+"I'm Cecile D'Albert, and this is Maurice D'Albert," answered
+Cecile. "Yes, we're a little French boy and girl, me and Maurice. We
+come from the south, from the Pyrenees."
+
+The tall lad sighed.
+
+"_La Belle France_!" he exclaimed with sudden fervor. He caught
+Cecile's little hand and wrung it, then he hurried away.
+
+After this he had once or twice again spoken to the children, but
+they had never got beyond the outside limits of friendship. And now
+behold! on this desolate sandy plain outside the far-famed town of
+Calais, the poor little French wanderers, who knew not a single word
+of their native language, and the tall boy with the fiddle met. It
+was surprising how that slight acquaintance in London ripened on the
+instant into violent friendship.
+
+Maurice, in his ecstasy at seeing a face he knew actually kissed the
+tall boy, and Cecile's eyes over-flowed with happy tears.
+
+"Oh! do sit down near us. Do help us, we're such a perplexed little
+boy and girl," she said; "do talk to us for a little bit, kind tall
+English boy."
+
+"You call me Jography, young un. It wor through jography we found
+each other out. And I ain't an English boy, no more nor you are an
+English girl; I'm French, I am. There, you call me Jography, young
+uns; 'tis uncommon, and 'ull fit fine."
+
+"Oh! then Jography is a person," said Cecile. "How glad I am! I was
+just longing that he might be. And I'm so glad you're French; and is
+Jography your real, real name?"
+
+"Ain't you fit to kill a body with laughing?" said the tall lad,
+rolling over and over in an ecstasy of mirth on the short grass. "No,
+I ain't christened Jography. My heyes! what a rum go that ud be! No,
+no, little uns, yer humble servant have had heaps of names. In Lunnon
+I wor mostly called Joe Barnes, and once, once, long ago, I wor
+little Alphonse Malet. My mother called me that, but Jography 'ull
+fit fine jest now. You two call me Jography, young uns."
+
+"And please, Jography," asked Cecile, "are you going to stay in
+France now you have come?"
+
+"Well, I rather guess I am. I didn't take all the trouble to run
+away to go back again, I can tell you. And now might I ax you what
+you two mites is arter?"
+
+In reply to that question Cecile told as much of her story as she
+dared. She and Maurice were going down south. They wanted to find a
+girl who they thought was in the south. It was a solemn promise--a
+promise made to one who was dead. Cecile must keep her promise, and
+never grow weary till she had found this girl.
+
+"But I was puzzled," said Cecile in conclusion. I was puzzled just
+now; for though me and Maurice are a little French boy and girl, we
+don't know one word of French. I did not know how we could find
+Lovedy; and I was wishing--oh! I _was_ wishing--that Jesus the
+Guide was living down on earth, and that He would take our hands and
+guide us."
+
+"Poor young uns!" said the boy, "Poor little mites! Suppose as I
+takes yer hands, and guides you two little morsels?"
+
+"Oh! will you, Jography?--oh! will you, indeed? how I shall love
+you! how I shall!"
+
+"And me too, and Toby too!" exclaimed Maurice. And the two children,
+in their excitement, flung their arms round their new friend's neck.
+
+"Well, I can speak French anyhow," said the boy. "But now listen.
+Don't you two agree to nothink till you hears my story."
+
+"But 'tis sure to be a nice story, Jography," said Maurice. "I shall
+like going south with you."
+
+"Well, sit on my knee and listen, young un. No; it ain't nice a bit.
+I'm French too, and I'm South too. I used to live in the Pyrenees. I
+lived there till I was seven years old. I had a mother and no father,
+and I had a big brother. I wor a happy little chap. My mother used to
+kiss me and cuddle me up; and my brother--there was no one like Jean.
+One day I wor playing in the mountains, when a big black man come up
+and axed me if I'd like to see his dancing dogs. I went with him. He
+wor a bad, bad man. When he got me in a lonely place he put my head
+in a bag, so as I could not see nor cry out, and he stole me. He
+brought me to Paris; afterward he sold me to a man in Lunnon as a
+'prentice. I had to dance with the dogs, and I was taught to play the
+fiddle. Both my masters were cruel to me, and they beat me often and
+often. I ha' been in Lunnon for seven year now; I can speak English
+well, but I never forgot the French. I always said as I'd run away
+back to France, and find my mother and my brother Jean. I never had
+the chance, for I wor watched close till ten days ago. I walked to
+Dover, and made my way across in an old fishing-smack. And here I am
+in France once more. Now little uns, I'm going south, and I can talk
+English to you, and I can talk French too. Shall we club together,
+little mates?"
+
+"But have you any money at all, Jography?" asked Cecile, puckering
+her pretty brows anxiously; "and--and--are you a honest boy, Jography?"
+
+"Well, ef you ain't a queer little lass! _I_ honest! I ain't
+likely to rob from _you_; no, tho' I ha'n't no money--but ha'
+you?"
+
+"Yes, dear Jography, I have money," said Cecile, laying her hand on
+the ragged sleeve; "I have some precious, precious money, as I must
+give to Lovedy when I see her. If that money gets lost or stolen
+Cecile will die. Oh, Jography! you won't, you won't take that money
+away from me. Promise, promise!"
+
+"I ain't a brute," said the boy. "Little un, I'd starve first!"
+
+"I believe you, Jography," said Cecile; "and, Jography, me and
+Maurice have a little other money to take us down south, and we are
+to stay in the smallest villages, and sleep in the werry poorest
+inns. Can you do that?"
+
+"Why, yes, I think I can sleep anywhere; and ef you'll jest lend me
+Toby there, I'll teach him to dance to my fiddling, and that'll earn
+more sous than I shall want. Is it a bargain then? Shall I go with
+you two mites and help you to find this ere Lovedy?"
+
+"Jography, 'twas Jesus the Guide sent you," said Cecile, clasping
+his hand.
+
+"And I don't want to go to heaven just now," said Maurice, taking
+hold of the other hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR.
+
+
+"And now," proceeded Joe, _alias_ Alphonse, _alias_
+Jography, "the first thing--now as it is settled as we three club
+together--the first thing is to plan the campaign."
+
+"What's the campaign?" asked Maurice, gazing with great awe and
+admiration at his new friend.
+
+"Why, young un, we're going south. You has got to find some un
+south, and I has got to find two people south. They may all be dead,
+and we may never find them; but for all that we has got to look, and
+look real hard too, I take it. Now, you see as this ere France is a
+werry big place; I remember when I wor brought away seven years ago
+that it took my master and me many days and many nights to travel
+even as far as Paris, and sometimes we went by train, and sometimes
+we had lifts in carts and wagons. Now, as we has got to walk all the
+way, and can't on no account go by no train, though we _may_ get
+a lift sometimes ef we're lucky, we has got to know our road. Look
+you yere, young uns, 'tis like this," Here Jography caught up a
+little stick and made a rapid sketch in the sand.
+
+"See!" he exclaimed, "this yere's France. Now we ere up yere, and we
+want to get down yere. We won't go round, we'll go straight across,
+and the first thing is to make for Paris. We'll go first to Paris,
+say I."
+
+"And are there night's lodgings in Paris?" asked Maurice, "and food
+to eat? and is it warm, not bitter, bitter cold like here?"
+
+"And is Paris a little town, Jography?" asked Cecile. "For my
+stepmother, she said as I was to look for Lovedy in all the little
+towns and in all the tiny inns."
+
+Jography laughed.
+
+"You two ere a rum pair," he said. "Yes, Maurice, you shall have
+plenty to eat in Paris, and as to being cold, why, that 'ull depend
+on where we goes, and what money we spends. You needn't be cold
+unless you likes; and Cecile, little Missie, we shall go through hall
+the smallest towns and villages, as you like, and we'll ax for Lovedy
+heverywhere. But Paris itself is a big, big place. I wor only seven
+years old, but I remember Paris. I wor werry misribble in Paris. Yes,
+I don't want to stay there. But we must go there. It seems to me 'tis
+near as big as Lunnon. Why shouldn't your Lovedy be in Paris, Missie?"
+
+"Only my stepmother did say the small villages, Jography. Oh! I
+don't know what for to do."
+
+"Well, you leave it to me. What's the use of a guide ef he can't
+guide you? You leave it to me, little un."
+
+"Yes, Cecile, come on, for I'm most bitter cold," said Maurice.
+
+"Stay one moment, young uns; you two ha' money, but this yere Joe
+ha'n't any, I want to test that dog there. Ef I can teach the dog to
+dance a little, why, I'll play my fiddle, and we'll get along fine."
+
+In the intense excitement of seeing Toby going through his first
+lesson, Maurice forgot all his cold and discomfort; he jumped to his
+feet, and capered about with delight; nay, at the poor dog's awkward
+efforts to steady himself on his hind legs, Maurice rolled on the
+ground with laughter.
+
+"You mustn't laugh at him," said Joe; "no dog 'ud do anythink ef he
+wor laughed at. There now, that's better. I'll soon teach him a trick
+or two."
+
+It is to be doubted whether Toby would have put up with the
+indignity of being forced to balance himself on the extreme point of
+his body were it not for Cecile. Hitherto he had held rather the
+position of director of the movements of the little party. He felt
+jealous of this big boy, who had come suddenly and taken the
+management of everything. When Joe caught him rather roughly by the
+front paws, and tried to force him to walk about after a fashion
+which certainly nature never intended, he was strongly inclined to
+lay angry teeth on his arm. But Cecile's eyes said no, and poor Toby,
+like many another before him, submitted tamely because of his love.
+He loved Cecile, and for his love he would submit to this indignity.
+The small performance over, Joe Barnes, flinging his fiddle over his
+shoulder, started to his feet, and the little party of pilgrims, now
+augmented to four, commenced their march. They walked for two hours;
+Joe, when Maurice was very tired, carrying him part of the way. At
+the end of two hours they reached another small village. Here Joe,
+taking his fiddle, played dexterously, and soon the village boys and
+girls, with their foreign dresses and foreign faces, came flocking out.
+
+"Ef Toby could only dance I'd make a fortune 'ere," whispered Joe to
+Cecile.
+
+But even without this valuable addition he did secure enough sous to
+pay for his own supper and leave something over for breakfast the
+next morning. Then, in French, which was certainly a trifle rusty for
+want of use, he demanded refreshments, of which the tired and hungry
+wanderers partook eagerly. Afterward they had another and shorter
+march into a still smaller and poorer village, where Joe secured them
+a very cheap but not very uncomfortable night's lodging.
+
+After they had eaten their supper, and little Maurice was already
+fast asleep, Cecile came up to the tall boy who had so opportunely
+and wonderfully acted their friend.
+
+"Jography," she said earnestly, "do you know the French of blue eyes
+and golden hair--the French of a red, red mouth, and little teeth
+like pearls. Do you know the French of all that much, dear Jography?"
+
+"Why, Missie," answered Joe, "I s'pose as I could manage it. But
+what do I want with blue eyes and gold hair? That ain't my mother,
+nor Jean neither."
+
+"Yes, Jography. But 'tis Lovedy. My stepmother said as I was to ask
+for that sort of girl in all the small villages and all the tiny
+inns, dear Jography,"
+
+"Well, well, and so we will, darlin'; we'll ax yere first thing
+to-morrow morning; and now lie down and go to sleep, for we must
+be early on the march, Missie."
+
+Cecile raised her lips to kiss Joe, and then she lay down by
+Maurice's side. But she did not at once go to sleep. She was thanking
+Jesus for sending to such a destitute, lonely little pair of children
+so good and so kind a guide.
+
+While Joe, for his part, wondered could it be possible that this
+unknown Lovedy could have bluer eyes than Cecile's own.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+THE WORD THAT SETTLED JOE BARNES.
+
+
+From London to Paris is no distance at all. The most delicate
+invalid can scarcely be fatigued by so slight a journey.
+
+So you say, who go comfortably for a pleasure trip. You start at a
+reasonably early hour in the morning, and arrive at your destination
+in time for dinner. A few of you, no doubt, may dread that short hour
+and a half spent on the Channel. But even its horrors are mitigated
+by large steamers and kind and attentive attendants, and as for the
+rest of the journey, it is nothing, not worth mentioning in these
+days of rushing over the world.
+
+Yes, the power of steam has brought the gay French capital thus
+near. But if you had to trudge the whole weary way on foot, you would
+still find that there were a vast number of miles between you and
+Paris. That these miles were apt to stretch themselves interminably,
+and that your feet were inclined to ache terribly; still more would
+you feel the length of the way and the vast distance of the road, if
+the journey had to be made in winter. Then the shortness of the days,
+the length of the nights, the great cold, the bitter winds, would all
+add to the horrors of this so-called simple journey.
+
+This four little pilgrims, going bravely onward, experienced.
+
+Toby, whose spirits rather sank from the moment Joe Barnes took the
+management of affairs, had the further misfortune of running a thorn
+into his foot; and though the very Joe whom he disliked was able to
+extract it, still for a day or two the poor dog was lame. Maurice,
+too, was still such a baby, and his little feet so quickly swelled
+from all this constant walking, that Joe had to carry him a great
+deal, and in this manner one lad felt the fatigue nearly as much as
+the other. On the whole, perhaps it was the little Queen of the
+party, the real Leader of the expedition, who suffered the least.
+Never did knight of old go in search of the Holy Grail more devoutly
+than did Cecile go now to deliver up her purse of gold, to keep her
+sacred promise.
+
+Not a fresh day broke but she said to herself: "I am a little nearer
+to Lovedy; I may hear of Lovedy to-day." But though Joe did not fail
+to air his French on her behalf, though he never ceased in every
+village inn to inquire for a fair and blue-eyed English girl, as yet
+they had got no clew; as yet not the faintest trace of the lost
+Lovedy could be heard of.
+
+They were now over a week in France, and were still a long, long way
+from Paris. Each day's proceedings consisted of two marches--one to
+some small village, where Joe played the fiddle, made a couple of
+sous, and where they had dinner; then another generally shorter march
+to another tiny village, where they slept for the night. In this way
+their progress could not but be very slow, and although Joe had far
+more wisdom than his little companions, yet he often got misdirected,
+and very often, after a particularly weary number of miles had been
+got over, they found that they had gone wrong, and that they were
+further from the great French capital than they had been the night
+before.
+
+Without knowing it, they had wandered a good way into Normandy, and
+though it was now getting quite into the middle of February, there
+was not a trace of spring vegetation to be discovered. The weather,
+too, was bitter and wintry. East winds, alternating with sleet
+showers, seemed the order of the day.
+
+Cecile had not dared to confide her secret to Mr. Danvers, neither
+had all Mrs. Moseley's motherly kindness won it from her. But,
+nevertheless, during the long, long days they spent together, she was
+not proof against the charms of the tall boy whom she believed Jesus
+had sent to guide her, and who was also her own fellow-countryman.
+
+All that long and pathetic interview which Cecile and her dying
+stepmother had held together had been told to Jography. Even the
+precious leather purse had been put into his hands, and he had been
+allowed to open it and count its contents.
+
+For a moment his deep-black eyes had glittered greedily as he felt
+the gold running through his fingers, then they softened. He returned
+the money to the purse, and gave it back, almost reverently, to Cecile.
+
+"Little Missie," he said, looking strangely at her and speaking in a
+sad tone, "you ha' showed me yer gold. Do you know what yer gold 'ud
+mean to me?"
+
+"No," answered Cecile, returning his glance in fullest confidence.
+
+"Why, Missie, I'm a poor starved lad. I ha' been treated werry
+shameful. I ha' got blows, and kicks, and rough food, and little of
+that same. But there's worse nor that; I han't no one to speak a kind
+word to me. Not one, not _one_ kind word for seven years have I
+heard, and before that I had a mother and a brother. I wor a little
+lad, and I used to sleep o' nights with my mother, and she used to
+take me in her arms and pet me and love me, and my big brother wor as
+good to me as brother could be. Missie, my heart has _starved_
+for my mother and my brother, and ef I liked I could take that purse
+full o' gold and let you little children fare as best you might, and
+I could jump inter the next train and be wid my mother and brother
+back in the Pyrenees in a werry short time."
+
+"No, Joe Barnes, you couldn't do that," answered Cecile, the finest
+pucker of surprise on her pretty brow.
+
+"You think as I couldn't, Missie dear, and why not? I'm much
+stronger than you."
+
+"No, Joe, _you_ couldn't steal my purse of gold," continued
+Cecile, still speaking quietly and without a trace of fear. "Aunt
+Lydia Purcell could have taken it away, and I dreaded her most
+terribly, and I would not tell dear Mrs. Moseley, nor Mr. Danvers,
+who was so good and kind; I would not tell them, for I was afraid
+somebody else might hear, or they might think me too young, and take
+away the purse for the present. But _you_ could not touch it,
+Jography, for if you did anything so dreadful, dreadful mean as that,
+your heart would break, and you would not care for your mother to pet
+you, and if your big brother were an honest man, you would not like
+to look at him. You would always think how you had robbed a little
+girl that trusted you, and who had a great, great dreadful care on
+her mind, and you would remember how Jesus the Guide had sent you to
+that little girl to help her, and your heart would break. You could
+not do it, Joe Barnes."
+
+Here Cecile returned her purse to its hiding place, and then sat
+quiet, with her hands folded before her.
+
+Nothing could exceed the dignity and calm of the little creature.
+The homeless and starved French boy, looking at her, felt a sudden
+lump rising in his throat;--a naturally warm and chivalrous nature
+made him almost inclined to worship the pretty child. For a moment
+the great lump in his throat prevented him speaking, then, falling on
+his knees, he took Cecile's little hand in his.
+
+"Cecile D'Albert," he said passionately, "I'd rayther be cut in
+little bits nor touch that purse o' gold. You're quite, quite right,
+little Missie, it 'ud break my heart."
+
+"Of course," said Cecile. "And now, Joe, shall we walk on, for 'tis
+most bitter cold under this sand hill; and see! poor Maurice is
+nearly asleep."
+
+That same evening, when, rather earlier than usual, the children and
+dog had taken refuge in a very tiny little wayside house, where a
+woman was giving them room to rest in almost for nothing, Joe, coming
+close to Cecile, said:
+
+"Wot wor that as you said that Jesus the Guide sent me to you,
+Missie. I don't know nothink about Jesus the Guide."
+
+"Oh, Joe! what an unhappy boy you must be! I was _so_ unhappy
+until I learned about Him, and I was a long, long time learning. Yes,
+He did send you. He could not come His own self, so He sent you."
+
+"But, indeed, Missie, no; I just runned away, and I got to France,
+and I heard you two funny little mites talking o' jography under the
+sand hill. It worn't likely as a feller 'ud forget the way you did
+speak o' jography. No one sent me, Missie."
+
+"But that's a way Jesus has, Jography. He does not always tell
+people when He is sending them. But He does send them all the same.
+It's very simple, dear Jography, but I was a long, long time learning
+about it. For a long time I thought Jesus came His own self, and
+walked with people when they were little, like me. I thought I should
+see Him and feel His hand, and when me and Maurice found ourselves
+alone outside Calais, and we did not know a word of French, I did, I
+did wish Jesus lived down here and not up in heaven, and I said I
+wished it, and then I said that I even wished jography was a person,
+and I had hardly said it before you came. Then you know, Joe, you
+told me you were for a whole long seven years trying to get back to
+your mother and brother, and you never could run away from your cruel
+master before. Oh, dear Jography! of course 'twas Jesus did it all,
+and now we're going home together to our own home in dear south of
+France."
+
+"Well, missie, perhaps as you're right. Certain sure it is, as I
+could never run away before; and I might ha' gone round to the side
+o' the sand hill and never heerd that word jography. That word
+settled the business for me, Miss Cecile."
+
+"Yes, Joe; and you must love Jesus now, for you see He loves you."
+
+"No, no, missie; nobody never did love Joe since he left off his
+mother."
+
+"But Jesus, the good Guide, does. Why, He died for you. You don't
+suppose a man would die for you without loving you?"
+
+"Nobody died fur me, Missie Cecile--that ere's nonsense, miss, dear."
+
+"No, Joe; I have it all in a book. The book is called the New
+Testament, and Mrs. Moseley gave it to me; and Mrs. Moseley never,
+never told a lie to anybody; and she said that nothing was so true in
+the world as this book. It's all about Jesus dying for us. Oh,
+Jography! I _cry_ when I read it, and I will read it to you.
+Only it is very sad. It's all about the lovely life of Jesus, and
+then how He was killed--and He let it be done for you and me. You
+will love Jesus when I read from the New Testament about Him, Joe."
+
+"I'd like to hear it, Missie, darling--and I love you now."
+
+"And I love you, poor, poor Joe--and here is a kiss for you, Joe.
+And now I must go to sleep."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+OUTSIDE CAEN.
+
+
+The morning after this little conversation between Joe and Cecile
+broke so dismally, and was so bitterly cold, that the old woman with
+whom the children had spent the night begged of them in her patois
+not to leave her. Joe, of course, alone could understand a word she
+said, and even Joe could not make much out of what very little
+resembled the _Bearnais_ of his native Pyrenees; but the Norman
+peasant, being both kind and intelligent, managed to convey to him
+that the weather looked ugly; that every symptom of a violent
+snowstorm was brewing in the lowering and leaden sky; that people had
+been lost and never heard of again in Normandy, in less severe
+snowstorms than the one that was likely to fall that night; that in
+almost a moment all landmarks would be utterly obliterated, and the
+four little travelers dismally perish.
+
+Joe, however, only remembering France by what it is in the sunny
+south, and having from his latter life in London very little idea of
+what a snowstorm really meant, paid but slight heed to these
+warnings; and having ascertained that Cecile by no means wished to
+remain in the little wayside cottage, he declared himself ready to
+encounter the perils of the way.
+
+The old peasant bade the children good-by with tears in her eyes.
+She even caught up Maurice in her arms, and said it was a direct
+flying in the face of Providence to let so sweet an angel go forth to
+meet "certain destruction." But as her vehement words were only
+understood by one, and by that one very imperfectly, they had
+unfortunately little result.
+
+The cottage was small, close, and very uncomfortable, and the
+children were glad to get on their way.
+
+Soon after noon they reached the old town of Caen. They had walked
+on for two or three miles by the side of the river Orne, and found
+themselves in old Caen before they knew it. Following strictly
+Cecile's line of action, the children had hitherto avoided all towns
+--thus, had they but known it, making very little real progress. But
+now, attracted by some washer-women who, bitter as the day was, were
+busy washing their clothes in the running waters of the Orne, they
+got into the picturesque town, and under the shadow of the old
+Cathedral.
+
+Here, indeed, early as it was in the day, the short time of light
+seemed almost to have disappeared. The sky--what could be seen of it
+between the tall houses of the narrow street--looked almost black,
+and little flakes of snow began to fall noiselessly.
+
+Here Joe, thinking of the Norman peasant, began to be a little
+alarmed. He proposed, as they had got into Caen, that they should run
+no further risk, but spend the night there.
+
+But this proposition was met by tears of reproach by Cecile. "Oh,
+dear Jography! and stepmother did say, never, never to stay in the
+big towns--always to sleep in the little inns. Caen is much, much too
+big a town. We must not break my word to stepmother--we must not
+stay here."
+
+Cecile's firmness, joined to her great childish ignorance, could be
+dangerous, but Joe only made a feeble protest.
+
+"Do you see that old woman, and the little lass by her side making
+lace?" he said. "That house don't look big; we might get a night's
+lodging as cheap as in the villages."
+
+But though the little Norman girl of seven nodded a friendly
+greeting to pretty brown-eyed Maurice as he passed, and though the
+making of lace on bobbins must be a delightful employment, Cecile
+felt there could be no tidings of Lovedy for her there; and after
+partaking of a little hot soup in the smallest cafe they could come
+across, the little pilgrims found themselves outside Caen and in the
+desolate and wintry country, when it was still early in the day.
+
+Early it was, not being yet quite two o'clock; but it might have
+been three or four hours later to judge by the light. The snow, it is
+true, had for the present ceased to fall, but the blackness of the
+sky was so great that the ground appeared light by comparison. A
+wind, which sounded more like a wailing cry than any wind the
+children had ever heard, seemed to fill the atmosphere.
+
+It was not a noisy wind, and it came in gusts, dying away, and then
+repeating itself. But for this wailing wind there was absolutely not
+a sound, for every bird, every living creature, except the three
+children and the dog, appeared to have vanished from the face of the
+earth. Maurice, not caring about the weather, indifferent to these
+signal flags of danger, was cross, for he wanted to talk to the
+little lacemaker, and to learn how to manage her bobbins.
+
+Cecile was wondering how soon they should reach a very small
+village, and find a night's shelter in a tiny inn. Joe, better
+appreciating the true danger, was full of anxious forebodings and
+also self-reproach, for allowing himself to be guided by a child so
+young and ignorant as Cecile. Still it never occurred to him to turn
+back.
+
+After all, it was given to Toby to suggest, though, alas! when too
+late, the only sensible line of action. For some time, indeed ever
+since they left Caen, the dog had walked on a little ahead of his
+party, with his tail drooping, his whole attitude one of utter
+despondency.
+
+Once or twice he had looked back reproachfully at Cecile; once or
+twice he had relieved his feelings with a short bark of utter
+discomfort. The state of the atmosphere was hateful to Toby. The
+leaden sky, charged with he knew not what, almost drove him mad. At
+last he could bear it no longer. There was death for him and his, in
+that terrible, sighing wind. He stood still, got on his hind legs,
+and, looking up at the lowering sky, gave vent to several long and
+unearthly howls, then darting at Cecile, he caught her dress between
+his teeth, and turned her sharp round in the direction of Caen.
+
+If ever a dog said plainly, "Go back at once, and save our lives,"
+Toby did then.
+
+"Toby is right," said Joe in a tone of relief; "something awful is
+going to fall from that sky, Cecile; we must go back to Caen at once."
+
+"Yes, we must go back," said Cecile, for even to her rather slow
+mind came the knowledge that a moment had arrived when a promise must
+yield to a circumstance.
+
+They had left Caen about a mile behind them. Turning back, it seemed
+close and welcome, almost at their feet. Maurice, still thinking of
+his little lacemaker, laughed with glee when Joe caught him in his
+arms.
+
+"Take hold of my coat-tails, Cecile," he said; "we must run, we may
+get back in time."
+
+Alas! alas! Toby's warning had come too late. Suddenly the wind
+ceased--there was a hush--an instant's stillness, so intense that the
+children, as they alone moved forward, felt their feet weighted with
+lead. Then from the black sky came a light that was almost dazzling.
+It was not lightning, it was the letting out from its vast bosom of a
+mighty torrent of snow. Thickly, thicker, thicker--faster, faster--in
+great soft flakes it fell; and, behold! in an instant, all Caen was
+blotted out. Trees vanished, landmarks disappeared, and the children
+could see nothing before them or behind them but this white wall,
+which seemed to press them in and hem them round.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+IN THE SNOW.
+
+
+So sudden was the snowstorm when it came, so complete the blinding
+sense of the loss of all external objects, that the children stood
+stunned, not fearing, because they utterly failed to realize.
+Maurice, it is true, hid his pretty head in Joe's breast, and Cecile
+clung a little tighter to her young companion. Toby, however, again
+seemed the only creature who had any wits about him. Now it would be
+impossible to get back to Caen. There was, as far as the little party
+of pilgrims were concerned, no Caen to return to, and yet they must
+not stand there, for either the violence of the storm would throw
+them on their faces, or the intense cold would freeze them to death.
+Onward must still be their motto. But where? These, perhaps, were
+Toby's thoughts, for certainly no one else thought at all. He set his
+keen wits to work. Suddenly he remembered something. The moment the
+memory came to him, he was an alert and active dog; in fact, he was
+once more in the post he loved. He was the leader of the expedition.
+Again he seized Cecile's thin and ragged frock; again he pulled her
+violently.
+
+"No, no, Toby," she said in a muffled and sad tone; "there's no use
+now, dear Toby."
+
+"Foller him, foiler him; he has more sense than we jest now," said
+Joe, rousing himself from his reverie.
+
+Toby threw to the tall boy the first grateful look which had issued
+from his brown eyes. Again he pulled Cecile, and the children,
+obeying him, found themselves descending the path a little, and then
+the next moment they were in comparative peace and comfort. Wise Toby
+had led them to the sheltered side of an old wall. Here the snow did
+not beat, and though eventually it would drift in this direction, yet
+here for the next few hours the children might at least breathe and
+find standing room.
+
+"Bravo, Toby!" said Joe, in a tone of rapture; "we none of us seen
+this old wall; why, it may save our lives. Now, if only the snow
+don't last too long, and if only we can keep awake, we may do even
+yet."
+
+"Why mayn't we go to sleep?" asked Cecile; "not that I am sleepy at
+two o'clock in the day."
+
+"Why mayn't we go to sleep?" echoed Joe. "Now, Missie, dear, I'm a
+werry hignorant boy, but I knows this much, I knows this much as true
+as gospel, and them as sleeps in the snow never, never wakes no more.
+We must none of us drop asleep, we must do hevery think but sleep--you
+and me, and Maurice and Toby. We must stay werry wide awake, and 'twill
+be hard, for they do say, as the cruel thing is, the snow does make
+you so desperate sleepy."
+
+"Do you mean, Joe Barnes," asked Cecile, fixing her earnest little
+face on the tall boy, "that if we little children went to sleep now,
+that we'd die? Is that what you mean by never waking again?"
+
+Joe nodded. "Yes, Missie, dear, that's about what I does mean," he
+said.
+
+"To die, and never wake again," repeated Cecile, "then I'd see the
+Guide. Oh, Joe! I'd _see_ Him, the lovely, lovely Jesus who I
+love so very much."
+
+"Oh! don't think on it, Miss Cecile; you has got to stay awake--you
+has no call to think on no such thing, Missie."
+
+Joe spoke with real and serious alarm. It seemed to him that Cecile
+in her earnest desire to see this Guide might lie down and court the
+sleep which would, alas! come so easily.
+
+He was therefore surprised when she said to him in a quiet and
+reproachful tone, "Do you think I would lie down and go to sleep and
+die, Jography? I should like to die, but I must not die just yet. I'm
+a very, very anxious little girl, and I have a great, great deal to
+do; it would not be right for me even to think of dying yet. Not
+until I have found Lovedy, and given Lovedy the purse of gold, and
+told Lovedy all about her mother, then after that I should like to
+die."
+
+"That's right, Missie; we won't think on no dying to-night. Now
+let's do all we can to keep awake; let's walk up and down this little
+sheltered bit under the wall; let's teach Toby to dance a bit; let's
+jump about a bit"
+
+If there was one thing in all the world poor Toby hated more than
+another, it was these same dancing lessons. The fact was the poor dog
+was too old to learn, and would never be much good as a dancing dog.
+
+Already he so much dreaded this new accomplishment which was being
+forced upon him, that at the very word dancing he would try and hide,
+and always at least tuck his tail between his legs.
+
+But now, what had transformed him? He heard what was intended
+distinctly, but instead of shrinking away, he came forward at once,
+and going close to Maurice's side, sat up with considerable skill,
+and then bending forward took the little boy's hat off his head, and
+held it between his teeth.
+
+Toby had an object. He wanted to draw the attention of the others to
+Maurice. And, in truth, he had not a moment to lose, for what they
+dreaded had almost come to little Maurice--already the little child
+was nearly asleep.
+
+"This will never do," said Joe with energy. He took Maurice up
+roughly, and shook him, and then drawing his attention to Toby,
+succeeded in rousing him a little.
+
+The next two hours were devoted by Cecile and Joe to Maurice, whom
+they tickled, shouted to, played with, and when everything else
+failed, Joe would even hold him up by his legs in the air.
+
+Maurice did not quite go to sleep, but the cold was so intense that
+the poor little fellow cried with pain.
+
+At the end of about two hours the snow ceased. The dark clouds
+rolled away from the sky, which shone down deep blue, peaceful, and
+star-bespangled on the children. The wind, also, had gone down, and
+the night was calm, though most bitterly cold.
+
+It had, however, been a very terrible snowstorm, and the snow, quite
+dazzling white, lay already more than a foot deep on the ground.
+
+"Why, Cecile," said Joe, "I can see Caen again."
+
+"Do you think we could walk back to Caen now, Joe?"
+
+"I don't know. I'll jest try a little bit first. I wish we could.
+You keep Maurice awake, Cecile, and I'll be back in a minute."
+
+Cecile took her little brother in her arms, and Joe disappeared
+round the corner of the old wall.
+
+"Stay with the children, Toby," he said to the dog, and Toby stayed.
+
+"Cecile," said Maurice, nestling up close to his sister, "'tisn't
+half so cold now."
+
+He spoke in a tone of great content and comfort, but his sweet baby
+voice sounded thin and weak.
+
+"Oh, yes! Maurice, darling, it's much colder. I'm in dreadful pain
+from the cold."
+
+"I was, Cecile, but 'tis gone. I'm not cold at all; I'm ever so
+comfortable. You'll be like me when the pain goes."
+
+"Maurice, I think we had better keep walking up and down."
+
+"No, no, Cecile, I won't walk no more. I'm so tired, and I'm so
+comfortable. Cecile, do they sing away in the South?"
+
+"I don't know, darling. I suppose they do."
+
+"Well, I know they sing in heaven. Mammie Moseley said so. Cecile,
+I'd much rather go to heaven than to the South. Would not you?"
+
+"Yes, I think so. Maurice, you must not go to sleep."
+
+"I'm not going to sleep. Cecile, will you sing that pretty song
+about glory? Mrs. Moseley used to sing it."
+
+"That one about '_thousands of children_?'" said Cecile.
+
+"Yes--singing, 'Glory, glory, glory.'"
+
+Cecile began. She sang a line or two, then she stopped. Maurice had
+fallen a little away from her. His mouth was partly open, his pretty
+eyes were closed fast and tight. Cecile called him, she shook him,
+she even cried over him, but all to no effect, he was fast asleep.
+
+Yes, Maurice was asleep, and Cecile was holding him in her arms.
+
+Joe was away? and Toby?--Cecile was not very sure where Toby was.
+
+She and her little brother were alone, half buried in the snow. What
+a dreadful position! What a terrible danger!
+
+Cecile kept repeating to herself, "Maurice is asleep, Maurice will
+never wake again. If I sleep I shall never wake again,"
+
+But the strange thing was that, realizing the danger, Cecile did not
+care. She was not anxious about Joe. She had no disposition to call
+to Toby. Even the purse of gold and the sacred promise became affairs
+of little moment. Everything grew dim to her--everything indifferent.
+She was only conscious of a sense of intense relief, only sure that
+the dreadful, dreadful pain from the cold in her legs was leaving her
+--that she, too, no longer felt the cold of the night. Jesus the Guide
+seemed very, very near, and she fancied that she heard "thousands of
+children" singing, "Glory, glory, glory."
+
+Then she remembered no more.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+TOBY AGAIN TO THE RESCUE.
+
+
+Meanwhile Joe was struggling in a snowdrift. Not ten paces away he
+had suddenly sunk down up to his waist. Notwithstanding his rough
+hard life, his want of food, his many and countless privations, he
+was a strong lad. Life was fresh and full within him. He would not,
+he could not let it go cheaply. He struggled and tried hard to gain a
+firmer footing, but although his struggles certainly kept him alive,
+they were hitherto unavailing. Suddenly he heard a cry, and was
+conscious that something heavy was springing in the air. This
+something was Toby, who, in agony at the condition of Cecile and
+Maurice, had gone in search of Joe. He now leaped on to the lad's
+shoulder, thus by no means assisting his efforts to free himself.
+
+"Hi, Toby lad! off! off!" he shouted; "back to the firm ground, good
+dog."
+
+Toby obeyed, and in so doing Joe managed to catch him by the tail.
+It was certainly but slight assistance, but in some wonderful way it
+proved itself enough. Joe got out of the drift, and was able to
+return with the dog to the friendly shelter of the old wall. There,
+indeed, a pang of terror and dismay seized him. Both children, locked
+tightly in each other's arms, were sound asleep.
+
+Asleep! Did it only mean sleep? That deathly pallor, that breathing
+which came slower and slower from the pretty parted lips! Already the
+little hands and feet were cold as death. Joe wondered if even now
+could succor come, would it be in time? He turned to the one living
+creature besides himself in this scene of desolation.
+
+"Toby," he said, "is there any house near? Toby, if we cannot soon
+get help for Cecile and Maurice, they will die. Think, Toby--think,
+good dog."
+
+Toby looked hard at Joe Barnes. Then he instantly sat down on his
+hind legs. Talk of dogs not having thoughts--Toby was considering
+hard just then. He felt a swelling sense of gratitude and even love
+for Joe for consulting him. He would put his dog's brain to good use
+now. Already he had thought of the friendly shelter of the old broken
+wall. Now he let his memory carry him back a trifle farther. What
+else had those sharp eyes of his taken in besides the old wall? Why,
+surely, surely, just down in the hollow, not many yards away, a
+little smoke. Did not smoke mean a fire? Did not a fire mean a house?
+Did not a house mean warmth and food and comfort? Toby was on his
+feet in a moment, his tail wagging fast. He looked at Joe and ran on,
+the boy following carefully. Very soon Joe too saw, not only a thin
+column of smoke, but a thick volume, caused by a large wood fire,
+curling up amidst the whiteness of the snow. The moment his eyes
+rested on the welcome sight, he sent Toby back. "Go and lie on the
+children, Toby. Keep them as warm as you can, good dog, dear dog."
+And Toby obeyed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+A FARM IN NORMANDY.
+
+
+A Norman gentleman farmer and his wife sat together in their snug
+parlor. Their children had all gone to bed an hour ago. Their one
+excellent servant was preparing supper in the kitchen close by. The
+warmly-curtained room had a look of almost English comfort.
+Children's books and toys lay scattered about. The good house-mother,
+after putting these in order, sat down by her husband's side to enjoy
+the first quiet half hour of the day.
+
+"What a fall of snow we have had, Marie," said M. Dupois, "and how
+bitterly cold it is! Why, already the thermometer is ten degrees
+below zero. I hate such deep snow. I must go out with the sledge the
+first thing in the morning and open a road."
+
+Of course this husband and wife conversed in French, which is here
+translated.
+
+"Hark!" said Mme. Dupois, suddenly raising her forefinger, "is not
+that something like a soft knocking? Can anyone have fallen down in
+this deep snow at our door?"
+
+M. Dupois rose at once and pushed aside the crimson curtain from one
+of the windows.
+
+"Yes, yes," he exclaimed quickly, "you are right, my good wife; here
+is a lad lying on the ground. Run and get Annette to heat blankets
+and make the kitchen fire big. I will go round to the poor boy."
+
+When M. Dupois did at last reach Joe Barnes, he had only strength to
+murmur in his broken French, "Go and save the others under the old
+wall--two children and dog"--before he fainted away.
+
+But his broken words were enough; he had come to people who had the
+kindest hearts in the world.
+
+It seemed but a moment before he himself was reviving before the
+blazing warmth of a great fire, while the good farmer with three of
+his men was searching for the missing children.
+
+They were not long in discovering them, with the dog himself, now
+nearly frozen, stretched across Cecile's body.
+
+Poor little starving lambs! they were taken into warmth and shelter,
+though it was a long time before either Cecile or Maurice showed the
+faintest signs of life.
+
+Maurice came to first, Cecile last. Indeed so long was she
+unconscious, so unavailing seemed all the warm brandy that was poured
+between her lips, that Mme. Dupois thought she must be dead.
+
+The farmer's children, awakened by the noise, had now slipped
+downstairs in their little nightdresses. And when at last Cecile's
+blue eyes opened once more on this world, it was to look into the
+bright black orbs of a little Norman maiden of about her own age.
+
+"Oh, look, mamma! Look! her eyes open, she sees! she lives! she
+moves! Ah, mother! how pleased I am."
+
+The little French girl cried in her joy, and Cecile watched her
+wonderingly, After a time she asked in a feeble, fluttering voice:
+
+"Please is this heaven? Have we two little children really got to
+heaven?"
+
+Her English words were only understood by Mme. Dupois, and not very
+perfectly by her. She told the child that she was not in heaven, but
+in a kind earthly home, where she need not think, but just eat
+something and then go to sleep.
+
+"And oh, mamma! How worn her little shoes are! and may I give her my
+new hat, mamma?" asked the pretty and pitying little Pauline.
+
+"In the morning, my darling. In the morning we will see to all that.
+Now the poor little wanderers must have some nice hot broth, and then
+they shall sleep here by the kitchen fire,"
+
+Strange to say, notwithstanding the terrible hardships they had
+undergone, neither Cecile nor Maurice was laid up with rheumatic
+fever. They slept soundly in the warmth and comfort of the delicious
+kitchen, and awoke the next morning scarcely the worse for their
+grave danger and peril.
+
+And now followed what might have been called a week in the Palace
+Beautiful for these little pilgrims. For while the snow lasted, and
+the weather continued so bitterly cold, neither M. nor Mme. Dupois
+would hear of their leaving them. With their whole warm hearts these
+good Christian people took in the children brought to them by the
+snow. Little Pauline and her brother Charles devoted themselves to
+Cecile and Maurice, and though their mutual ignorance of the only
+language the others could speak was owned to be a drawback, yet they
+managed to play happily and to understand a great deal; and here, had
+Cecile confided as much of her little story to kind Mme. Dupois as
+she had done to Joe Barnes, all that follows need never have been
+written. But alas! again that dread, that absolute terror that her
+purse of gold, if discovered, might be taken from her, overcame the
+poor little girl; so much so that, when Madame questioned her in her
+English tone as to her life's history, and as to her present
+pilgrimage, Cecile only replied that she was going through France on
+her way to the South, that she had relations in the South. Joe, when
+questioned, also said that he had a mother and a brother in the
+South, and that he was taking care of Cecile and Maurice on their way
+there.
+
+Mme. Dupois did not really know English well, and Cecile's reserve,
+joined to her few words of explanation, only puzzled her. As both she
+and her husband were poor, and could not, even if it were desirable,
+adopt the children, there seemed nothing for it but, when the weather
+cleared, to let them continue on their way.
+
+"There is one thing, however, we can do to help them," said M.
+Dupois. "I have decided to sell that corn and hay in Paris, and as
+the horses are just eating their heads off with idleness just now in
+their stables, the men shall take the wagons there instead of having
+the train expenses; the children therefore can ride to Paris in the
+wagons."
+
+"That will take nearly a week, will it not, Gustave?" asked Mme.
+Dupois.
+
+"It will take three or four days, but I will provision the men. Yes,
+I think it the best plan, and the surest way of disposing
+advantageously of the hay and corn. The children may be ready to
+start by Monday. The roads will be quite passable then."
+
+So it was decided, and so it came to pass; Charles and Pauline
+assuring Joe, who in turn informed Cecile and Maurice, that the
+delights of riding in one of their papa's wagons passed all
+description. Pauline gave Cecile not only a new hat but new boots and
+a new frock. Maurice's scanty and shabby little wardrobe was also put
+in good repair, nor was poor Joe neglected, and with tears and
+blessing on both sides, these little pilgrims parted from those who
+had most truly proved to them good Samaritans.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+O MINE ENEMY!
+
+
+Whatever good Cecile's purse of gold might be to her ultimately, at
+present it was but a source of peril and danger.
+
+Had anyone suspected the child of carrying about so large a
+treasure, her life even might have been the forfeit. Joe Barnes knew
+this well, and he was most careful that no hint as to the existence
+of the purse should pass his lips.
+
+During the week the children spent at the happy Norman farm all
+indeed seemed very safe, and yet even there, there was a secret,
+hidden danger. A danger which would reveal itself by and by.
+
+As I have said, it was arranged that the little party should go to
+Paris in M. Dupois' wagons; and the night before their departure Joe
+had come to Cecile, and begged her during their journey, when it
+would be impossible for them to be alone, and when they must be at
+all times more or less in the company of the men who drove and
+managed the wagons, to be most careful not to let anyone even suspect
+the existence of the purse. He even begged of her to let him take
+care of it for her until they reached Paris. But when she refused to
+part with it, he got her to consent that he should keep enough silver
+out of its contents to pay their slight expenses on the road.
+
+Very slight these expenses would be, for kind M. Dupois had
+provisioned the wagons with food, and at night they would make a
+comfortable shelter. Still Cecile so far listened to Joe as to give
+him some francs out of her purse.
+
+She had an idea that it was safest in the hiding place next her
+heart, where her stepmother had seen her place it, and she had made a
+firm resolve that, if need be, her life should be taken before she
+parted with this precious purse of gold. For the Russia-leather purse
+represented her honor to the little girl.
+
+But, as I said, an unlooked-for danger was near--a danger, too,
+which had followed her all the way from Warren's Grove. Lydia Purcell
+had always been very particular whom she engaged to work on Mrs.
+Bell's farm, generally confining herself to men from the same shire.
+But shortly before the old lady's death, being rather short of hands
+to finish the late harvest, a tramp from some distant part of the
+country had offered his services. Lydia, driven to despair to get a
+certain job finished before the weather finally broke, had engaged
+him by the week, had found him an able workman, and had not ever
+learned to regret her choice. The man, however, was disliked by his
+fellow-laborers. They called him a foreigner, and accused him of
+being a sneak and a spy. All these charges he denied stoutly;
+nevertheless they were true. The man was of Norman-French birth. He
+had drifted over to England when a lad. His parents had been
+respectable farmers in Normandy. They had educated their son; he was
+clever, and had the advantage of knowing both French and English
+thoroughly. Nevertheless he was a bad fellow. He consorted with
+rogues; he got into scrapes; many times he saw the inside of an
+English prison. But so plausible was Simon Watts--as he called
+himself on the Warren's Grove farm--that Aunt Lydia was completely
+taken in by him. She esteemed him a valuable servant, and rather
+spoiled him with good living. Simon, keeping his own birth for many
+reasons a profound secret, would have been more annoyed than
+gratified had he learned that the children on the farm were also
+French. He heard this fact through an accident on the night of their
+departure. It so happened that Simon slept in a room over the stable
+where the pony was kept; and Jane Parsons, in going for this pony to
+harness him to the light cart, awoke Simon from his light slumber. He
+came down to find her harnessing Bess; and on his demanding what she
+wanted with the pony at so very early an hour, she told him in her
+excitement rather more of the truth than was good for him to know.
+
+"Those blessed children were being robbed of quite a large sum of
+money. They wanted the money to carry them back to France. It had
+been left to the little girl for a certain purpose by one who was
+dead. They were little French children, bless them! Lydia Purcell had
+a heart of stone, but she, Jane, had outwitted her. The children had
+got back their money, and Jane was about to drive them over to catch
+the night mail for London, where they should be well received and
+cared for by a friend of her own."
+
+So explained Jane Parsons, and Simon Watts had listened; he wished
+for a few moments that he had known about this money a little sooner,
+and then, seeing that there seemed no help for it, as the children
+were being moved absolutely out of his reach, had dismissed the
+matter from his mind.
+
+But, see! how strange are the coincidences of life! Soon after,
+Simon not only learned that all the servants on the farm were to
+change hands, that many of them would be dismissed, but he also
+learned some very disagreeable news in connection with the police,
+which would make it advisable for him to make himself scarce at a
+moment's notice. He vanished from Warren's Grove, and not being very
+far from Dover, worked his way across the Channel in a fishing-smack,
+and once more, after an absence of ten years, trod his native shores.
+
+Instantly he dropped his character as an Englishman, and became as
+French as anyone about him. He walked to Caen, found out M. Dupois,
+and was engaged on his farm. Thus he once more, in the most unlooked-for
+manner, came directly across the paths of Cecile and Maurice.
+
+But a further queer thing was to happen. Watts now calling himself
+Anton, being better educated than his fellow-laborers, and having
+always a wonderful power of impressing others with his absolute
+honesty, was thought a highly desirable person by M. Dupois to
+accompany his head-steward to Paris, and assist him in the sale of
+the great loads of hay and corn. Cecile and Maurice did not know him
+in the least. He was now dressed in the blouse of a French peasant,
+and besides they had scarcely ever seen him at Warren's Grove.
+
+But Anton, recognizing the children, thought about them day and
+night. He considered it a wonderful piece of luck that had brought
+these little pilgrims again across his path. He was an unscrupulous
+man, he was a thief, he resolved that the children's money should be
+his. He had, however, some difficulties to encounter. Watching them
+closely, he saw that Cecile never paid for anything. That, on all
+occasions, when a few sous were needed, Joe was appealed to, and from
+Joe's pocket would the necessary sum be forthcoming.
+
+He, therefore, concluded that Cecile had intrusted her money to Joe.
+Had he not been so very sure of this--had he for a moment believed
+that a little child so helpless and so young as Cecile carried about
+with her so much gold--I am afraid he would have simply watched his
+opportunity, have stifled the cries of the little creature, have torn
+her treasure from her grasp, and decamped. But Anton believed that
+Joe was the purse-bearer, and Joe was a more formidable person to
+deal with. Joe was very tall and strong for his age; whereas Anton
+was a remarkably little and slender man. Joe, too, watched the
+children day and night like a dragon. Anton felt that in a hand-to-hand
+fight Joe would have the best of it. Also, to declare his knowledge
+of the existence of the purse, he would have to disclose his English
+residence, and his acquaintance with the English tongue. That fact
+once made known might have seriously injured his prospects with
+M. Dupois' steward, and, in place of anything better, he wished
+to keep in the good graces of this family for the present.
+
+Still so clever a person as Anton, _alias_ Watts, could go
+warily to work, and after thinking it all over, he decided to make
+himself agreeable to Joe. In their very first interview he set his
+own mind completely at rest as to the fact that the children carried
+money with them; that the large sum spoken of by Jane Parsons was
+still intact, and still in their possession.
+
+Not that poor Joe had revealed a word; but when Anton led up to the
+subject of money there was an eager, too eager avoidance of the
+theme, joined to a troubled and anxious expression in his boyish
+face, which told the clever and bad man all he wanted.
+
+In their second long talk together, he learned little by little the
+boy's own history. Far more than he had cared to confide to Cecile
+did Joe tell to Anton of his early life, of his cruel suffering as a
+little apprentice to his bad master, of his bitter hardships, of his
+narrow escapes, finally of his successful running away. And now of
+the hope which burned within him night and day; the hope of once more
+seeing his mother, of once more being taken home to his mother's heart.
+
+"I'd rather die than give it up," said poor Joe in conclusion, and
+when he said these words with sudden and passionate fervor, wicked
+Anton felt that the ball, as he expressed it, was at his feet.
+
+Anton resolved so to work on Joe's fears, so to trade on his
+affections for his mother and his early home, and if necessary, so to
+threaten to deliver him up to his old master, who could punish him
+for running away, that Joe himself, to set himself free, would part
+with Cecile's purse of gold.
+
+The bad man could scarcely sleep with delight as he formed his
+schemes; he longed to know how much the purse contained--of course in
+his eagerness he doubled the sum it really did possess.
+
+He now devoted all his leisure time to the little pilgrims, and all
+the little party made friends with him except Toby. But wise Toby
+looked angry when he saw him talking to Cecile, and pretending that
+he was learning some broken English from her pretty lips.
+
+When they got to Paris, Anton promised to provide the children with
+both cheap and comfortable lodgings. He had quite determined not to
+lose sight of them until his object was accomplished.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+WARNED OF GOD IN A DREAM.
+
+
+And now a strange thing happened to Cecile, something which shows, I
+think, very plainly how near the heavenly Guide really was to His
+little wandering lamb.
+
+After nearly a week spent on the road M. Dupois' wagons reached
+Paris in perfect safety, and then Anton, according to his promise,
+took the three children and their dog to lodge with a friend of his.
+
+M. Dupois' steward made no objection to this arrangement, for Anton
+seemed a most steady and respectable man, and the children had all
+made great friends with him.
+
+Chuckling inwardly, Anton led his little charges to a part of Paris
+called the Cite. This was where the very poor lived, and Anton
+guessed it would best suit his purpose. The houses were very old and
+shabby, most of them consisting of only two stories, though a few
+could even boast of four. These wretched and dirty houses were quite
+as bad as any London slums. Little particular Maurice declared he did
+not like the nasty smells, but on Anton informing Cecile that
+lodgings would be very cheap here, she made up her mind to stay for
+at least a night. Anton took the children up to the top of one of the
+tallest of the houses. Here were two fair-sized rooms occupied by an
+old man and woman. The man was ill and nearly blind, the woman was
+also too aged and infirm to work. She seemed, however, a good-natured
+old soul, and told Joe--for, of course, she did not understand a word
+of English--that she had lost five children, but though they were
+often almost starving, she could never bring herself to sell these
+little ones' clothes--she now pointed to them hanging on five peg--on
+the wall. The old couple had a grandson aged seventeen. This boy,
+thin and ragged as he was, had a face full of fun and mischief. "He
+picks up odd jobs, and so we manage to live," said the old woman to
+Joe.
+
+Both she and her husband were glad to take the children in, and
+promised to make them comfortable--which they did, after a fashion.
+
+"We can stay here one night. We shall be quite rested and able to go
+on down south to-morrow, Joe," said Cecile.
+
+And Joe nodded, inwardly resolving that one night in such quarters
+should be all they should spend. For he felt that though of course
+Anton knew nothing about the existence of the purse, yet, that had it
+been known, it would not be long in Cecile's possession were she to
+remain there.
+
+Poor Joe! he little guessed that Anton had heard and understood
+every word of Cecile's English, and was making up his mind just as
+firmly as Joe. His intention was that not one of that little band
+should leave the purlieus of the Cite until that purse with its
+precious contents was his.
+
+The old couple, however, were really both simple and honest. They
+had no accommodation that night for Anton; consequently, for that
+first night Cecile's treasure was tolerably free from danger.
+
+And now occurred that event which I must consider the direct
+intervention of the Guide Jesus on Cecile's behalf. This event was
+nothing more nor less than a dream. Now anyone may dream. Of all the
+common and unimportant things under the sun, dreams in our present
+day rank as the commonest, the most unimportant. No one thinks about
+dreams. People, if they have got any reputation for wisdom, do not
+even care to mention them. Quite true, but there are dreams and
+dreams; and I still hold to my belief that Cecile's dream was really
+sent to her direct from heaven.
+
+For instance, there never was a more obstinate child than Cecile
+D'Albert. Once get an idea or a resolve firmly fixed in her ignorant
+and yet wise little head, and she would cling to it for bare life.
+Her dead stepmother's directions were as gospel to the little girl,
+and one of her directions was to keep the purse at all hazards. Not
+any amount of wise talking, not the most clear exposition of the
+great danger she ran in retaining it, could have moved her. She
+really loved Joe. But Joe's words would have been as nothing to her,
+had he asked her to transfer the precious leather purse to his care.
+And yet a dream converted Cecile, and induced her to part with her
+purse without any further difficulty. Lying on a heap of straw by
+Maurice's side, Cecile dreamt in that vivid manner which makes a
+vision of the night so real.
+
+Jesus the Guide came into the room. It was no longer a man or a
+woman, or even a kind boy sent by Him. No, no, He came Himself. He
+came radiant and yet human, with a face something as Cecile imagined
+her own mother's face, and He said, "Lovedy's gold is in danger, it
+is no longer safe with you. Take it to-morrow to the Faubourg St. G----.
+There is an English lady there. Her name will be on the door of a
+house. Ask to see her. She will be at home. Give her Lovedy's money
+to keep for her. The money will be quite safe then."
+
+Immediately after this extraordinary dream Cecile awoke, nor could
+she close her eyes again that night. The Faubourg St. G---- kept
+dancing before her eyes. She seemed to see a shabby suburb, and then
+a long and rather narrow street, and when her eyes were quite weary
+with all the strange French names, there came a plain unmistakable
+English name, and Cecile felt that the lady who bore this name must
+be the caretaker of the precious purse for the present. Yes, she must
+go to the Faubourg St. G----. She must find it without delay. Cecile
+believed in her dream most fervently. She was quite sure there was
+such a part of the great city--there was such a lady. Had not Jesus
+the Guide come Himself to tell her to go to her?
+
+Cecile, reading her New Testament for the first time, had vivid
+memories about its wonderful stories. What, alas! is often hackneyed
+to older and so-called wiser folks, came with power to the little
+child. Cecile was not surprised that she should be told what to do in
+a dream. The New Testament was full of accounts of people who were
+warned of God in a dream. She, too, had been sent this divine
+warning. Nothing should prevent her acting upon it. In the morning
+she resolved to tell Joe all about her vision, and then ask him to
+take her without delay to the English lady who lived in the Faubourg
+St. G----. But when she got up no Joe was visible, and the old woman
+managed to convey to her that he had gone out to make some inquiries
+about their journey south, and would not be back for some hours. She
+then poured out a decoction which she called coffee and gave it to
+the children, and Cecile drank it off, wondering, as she did so, how
+she, who did not know a word of French, could find her way alone to
+the Faubourg St. G----. As she thought, she raised her eyes and
+encountered the fixed, amused, and impudent gaze of the old woman's
+grandson. This lad had taken a fancy to Cecile and Maurice from the
+first. He now sat opposite to them as they ate. His legs were crossed
+under him, his hands were folded across his breast. He stared hard.
+He did nothing but stare. But this occupation seemed to afford him
+the fullest content.
+
+Maurice said, "Nasty rude man," and shook his hand at him.
+
+But Pericard, not understanding a single word of English, only
+laughed, and placidly continued his amusement.
+
+Suddenly a thought came to Cecile:
+
+"Pericard," she said, "Faubourg St. G----."
+
+Pericard nodded, and looked intelligent.
+
+"Oui," he answered, "Faubourg St. G----."
+
+Cecile then got up, took his hand, and pointed first to the window
+then to the door. Then she touched herself and Maurice, and again said:
+
+"Faubourg St. G----."
+
+Pericard nodded again. He understood her perfectly.
+
+"Oui, oui, Mam'selle," he said, and now he took Cecile's hand, and
+Cecile took Maurice's, and they went down into the street. They had
+only turned a corner, when Anton came up to the lodging. The old
+woman could but inform him that the children had gone out with
+Pericard. That she did not know when they would be back. That Joe
+also had gone away quite early.
+
+Anton felt inclined to swear. He had made a nice little plan for
+this morning. He had sent Joe away on purpose. There was nothing now
+for it but to wait the children's return, as it would be worse than
+useless to pursue them over Paris. He only hoped, as he resigned
+himself to his fate, that they would return before Joe did.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+THE FAUBOURG ST. G----.
+
+
+Pericard was a genuine French lad. Perhaps few boys had undergone
+more hardships in his life; he had known starvation, he had known
+blows, he had felt in their extremity both winter's cold and summer's
+heat. True, his old grandmother gave him what she could, both of love
+and kindness. But the outside world had been decidedly rough on
+Pericard. An English boy would have shown this on his face. He would
+have appeared careworn, he would scarcely have seemed gay. Very far
+otherwise, however, was it with this French lad. His merry eyes
+twinkled continually. He laughed, he whistled, he danced. His
+misfortunes seemed to have no power to enter into him; they only
+swept around.
+
+Had he then a shallow heart? Who can tell? He was a genuine specimen
+of the ordinary Paris gamin.
+
+Pericard now much enjoyed the idea of taking Cecile and Maurice out
+to the rather distant suburb called the Faubourg St. G----.
+
+He knew perfectly how to get there. He knew that Cecile, who
+understood no French wanted to find herself there. He understood
+nothing, and cared less for what her object was in going there.
+
+He was to be her guide. He would lead her safely to this faubourg,
+and then back again to his grandmother's house.
+
+Pericard, for all his rags, had something of a gentleman's heart.
+
+He enjoyed guiding this very fair and pretty little lady.
+
+Of course, Maurice and Toby came too. But Cecile was Pericard's
+princess on this occasion.
+
+As they walked along, it occurred to him how very pleasant it would
+be to treat his princess--to buy a dainty little breakfast from one
+or more of the venders who spread their tempting condiments on
+different stalls, as they passed. He might purchase some fruit, some
+chocolate, a roll, some butter. Then! how good these things would be,
+shared between him and the princess, and, of course, the little
+brother and the good dog, and eaten in that same faubourg, where the
+air must be a little better, purer than in Paris proper. If only he
+had the necessary sous?
+
+Alas! he only possessed one centime, and that would buy no dainties
+worth mentioning.
+
+As the funny little group walked along, Pericard steering straight
+and clear in the right direction, they saw an old Jew clothesman
+walking just in front of them. There was nothing particular about
+this old fellow. He was, doubtless, doing as lucrative a trade in
+Paris as elsewhere. But, nevertheless, Pericard's bright eyes lighted
+up at sight of him.
+
+He felt hastily once again in his ragged coat; there rested his one
+centime. Nodding to Cecile and Maurice, and making signs that he
+would return instantly, he rushed after the old Jew--tore his coat
+from his back, and offered it for sale.
+
+It was an old garment, greasy and much worn, but the lining was
+still good, and, doubtless, it helped to keep Pericard warm. Intent,
+however, now on the trick he meant to play, he felt no cold.
+
+The old Jew salesman, who never _on principle_ rejected the
+possible making of even a few sous, stopped to examine the shabby
+article. In deliberation as to its age, etc., he contrived also to
+feel the condition of its pockets. Instantly, as the boy hoped, he
+perceived the little piece of money. His greedy old face lit up.
+After thinking a moment, he offered one franc for the worthless
+garment.
+
+Pericard could not part with it for a franc. Then he offered two.
+Pericard stuck out for three. He would give the greasy and ragged old
+coat for three francs. The Jew felt the pocket again. It was a large
+sum to risk for what in itself was not worth many sous; but, then, he
+might not have such a chance again. Finally, he made up his mind, and
+put three francs into Pericard's eager hand.
+
+Instantly the old fellow pounced upon his hidden treasure. Behold! a
+solitary--a miserable centime. His rage knew no bounds! He called it
+an infamous robbery! He shouted to Pericard to take back his rags!
+
+Whistling and laughing, the French boy exclaimed: "Pas si bete!" and
+then returned to the children.
+
+Now, indeed, was Pericard happy. He nodded most vigorously to
+Cecile. He showed her his three francs. He tossed them in the air. He
+spun them before him on the dirty road. It seemed wonderful that he
+did not lose his treasures. Finally, after indulging in about six
+somersaults in succession, he deposited the coins in his mouth, and
+became grave after his own fashion again.
+
+Now must he and the English children, for such he believed them,
+have the exquisite delight of spending this precious money. They
+turned into a street which resembled more an ordinary market than a
+street. Here were provisions in abundance; here were buyers and
+sellers; here was food of all descriptions. Each vender of food had
+his own particular stall, set up under his own particular awning.
+Pericard seemed to know the place well. Maurice screamed with delight
+at the sight of so much delicious food, and even patient Toby licked
+his chops, and owned to himself that their morning's breakfast had
+been very scanty.
+
+Cecile alone--too intent on her mission to be hungry--felt little
+interest in the tempting stalls.
+
+Pericard, however, began to lay in provisions judiciously. Here in
+this Rue de Sevres, were to be bought fruit, flowers, vegetables of
+all kinds, butter, cheese, cream, and even fish.
+
+"Bonjour, Pere Bison," said Pericard, who, feeling himself rich,
+made his choice with care and deliberation.
+
+This old man sold turkey eggs, cream-cheese, and butter. Pericard
+purchased a tiny piece of deliciously fresh-looking butter, a small
+morsel of cream-cheese, and three turkey eggs; at another stall he
+bought some rolls; at a third a supply of fresh and rosy apples. Thus
+provided, he became an object of immense attraction to Toby, and, it
+must be owned, also to Maurice.
+
+As they walked along, in enforced silence, Pericard indulged in
+delicious meditations. What a moment that would be when they sucked
+those turkeys eggs! how truly delightful to see his dainty little
+princess enjoying her morsel of cream-cheese!
+
+At last, after what seemed an interminable time, they reached the
+faubourg dreamed of so vividly the night before by Cecile. It was a
+large place, and also a very poor neighborhood.
+
+Having arrived at their destination. Pericard pointed to the name on
+a lamp-post, spreading out his arms with a significant gesture; then,
+letting them drop to his sides, stood still. His object was
+accomplished. He now waited impatiently for the moment when they
+might begin their feast.
+
+Cecile felt a strange fluttering at her heart; the place was so
+large, the streets so interminable. Where, how, should she find the
+lady with the English name?
+
+Pericard was now of no further use. He must follow where she led.
+She walked on, her steps flagging--despondency growing at her heart.
+
+Was her dream then not real after all? Ah, yes! it must, it must be
+a Heaven-sent warning. Was not Joseph warned of God in a dream? Was
+he not told where to go and what to do?--just as Cecile herself had
+been told by the blessed Lord Himself. Only an angel had come to
+Joseph, but Jesus Himself had counseled Cecile. Yes, she was now in
+the faubourg--she must presently find the lady bearing the English
+name.
+
+The Faubourg St. G---- was undoubtedly a poor suburb, but just even
+when Pericard's patience began to give way, the children saw a row of
+houses taller and better than any they had hitherto come across. The
+English lady must live there. Cecile again, with renewed hope and
+confidence, walked down the street. At the sixth house she stopped,
+and a cry of joy, of almost rapture, escaped her lips. Amid all the
+countless foreign words and names stood a modest English one on a
+neat door painted green. In the middle of a shining brass plate
+appeared two very simple, very common words--_"Miss Smith."_
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+THE WINSEY FROCK.
+
+
+Her voice almost trembling with suppressed excitement, Cecile turned
+to her little brother.
+
+"Maurice, Miss Smith lives here. She is an English lady. I must see
+her. You will stay outside with Pericard, Maurice; and Toby will take
+care of you. Don't go away. Just walk up and down. I shan't be long;
+and, Maurice, you won't go away?"
+
+"No" answered Maurice, "I won't run away. I will eat some of that
+nice breakfast without waiting for you, Cecile; for I am hungry, but
+I won't run away."
+
+Then Maurice took Pericard's hand. Toby wagged his tail knowingly,
+and Cecile ran up the steps of Miss Smith's house. A young girl, with
+the round fresh face of old England, answered her modest summons.
+
+"Yes," she said, "Miss Smith was at home." She would inquire if she
+could see the little girl from London. She invited Cecile to step
+into the hall; and a moment or two later showed her into a very
+small, neatly furnished parlor. This small room was quite in English
+fashion, and bore marks of extreme neatness, joined to extremely
+slender means.
+
+Cecile stood by the round table in the center of the room. She had
+now taken her purse from the bosom of her dress, and when Miss Smith
+entered, she came up to her at once, holding it in her hand.
+
+"If you please," said Cecile, "Jesus the Guide says you will take
+care of this for me. He sent me to you, and said you would take
+great, great care of my money. 'Tis all quite right. Will you open
+the purse, please? 'Tis a Russia-leather purse, and there's forty
+pounds in it, and about eleven or twelve more, I think. I must have
+some to take me and Maurice and Toby down south. But Jesus says you
+will take great care of the rest."
+
+"Child," said Miss Smith. She was a very little woman, with a white,
+thin, and worn face. She looked nearer fifty than forty. Her hair was
+scanty and gray. When Cecile offered her the purse she flushed
+painfully, stepped back a pace or two, and pushed it from her.
+
+"Child," she repeated, "are you mad, or is it Satan is sending you
+here? Pretty little girl, with the English tongue, do you know that I
+am starving?"
+
+"Oh!" said Cecile. Her face showed compassion, but she did not
+attempt to take up her purse. On the contrary, she left it on the
+table close to Miss Smith, and retreated to the farther side herself.
+
+"Starving means being very, very hungry," said Cecile. "I know what
+that means, just a little. It is a bad feeling. I am sorry. There is
+a turkey egg waiting for me outside. I will fetch it for you in a
+moment. But you are quite wrong in saying it was Satan sent me to
+you. I don't know anything about Satan. It was the blessed, blessed
+Jesus the Guide sent me. He came last night in a dream. He told me to
+go to the Faubourg St. G---- and I should find an English lady, and
+she would take great care of my Russia-leather purse. It was a true
+warning, just as Joseph's dream was true. He was warned of God in a
+dream, just as I was last night."
+
+"And I am the only Englishwoman in the faubourg," said Miss Smith. "I
+have lived here for ten years now, and I never heard of any other. I
+teach, or, rather, I did teach English in a Pension de Demoiselles
+close by, and I have been dismissed. I was thought too old-fashioned.
+I can't get any more employment, and I had just broken into my last
+franc piece when you came. I might have done without food, but Molly
+was _so_ hungry. Molly is going to-morrow, and I shall be alone.
+Yes, little English girl, you do right to reprove me. I, too, have
+loved the Lord Jesus. Sit down! Sit down on that chair, and tell me,
+in my own dear tongue, the story of that purse."
+
+"I am not an English girl," said Cecile; "I am French; I come from
+the south, from the Pyrenees; but my father brought me to England
+when I was two years old, and I don't know any French. My father
+died, and I had a stepmother; and my stepmother died, and when she
+was dying she gave me a charge. It was a great charge, and it weighs
+heavily on my heart, and makes me feel very old. My stepmother had a
+daughter who ran away from her when she married my father. My
+stepmother thinks she went to France, and got lost in France, and she
+gave me a purse of money--some to give to Lovedy, and some to spend
+in looking for her. I feel that Lovedy has gone south, and I am going
+down south, too, to find her. I, and my little brother, and our dog,
+and a big, kind boy--we are all going south to find Lovedy. And last
+night Jesus the Guide came to me in a dream, and told me that my
+purse was in danger, and He told me to come to you. Satan had nothing
+at all to say to it. It was Jesus sent me to you."
+
+"I believe you, child," said Miss Smith. "You bring the strangest
+tale, but I believe you. You bring a purse containing a lot of money
+to a starving woman. Well, I never was brought so low as not to be
+honest yet. How much money is in the purse, little girl?"
+
+"There are four ten-pound notes--that makes forty pounds," said
+Cecile--"that is Lovedy's money; there are about eleven pounds of the
+money I must spend. You must give me that eleven pounds, please, Miss
+Smith, and you must keep the forty pounds very, _very_ safely
+until I come for it, or send for it."
+
+"What is your name, little girl?"
+
+"Cecile D'Albert."
+
+"Well, Cecile, don't you think that if you had a dream about the
+forty pounds being in danger, that the eleven pounds will be in
+danger too? Someone must have guessed you had that money, little one,
+and and if they can't get hold of the forty pounds, they will take
+the eleven."
+
+Cecile felt herself growing a trifle pale.
+
+"I never thought of that," she said. "I cannot look for Lovedy
+without a little money. What shall I do, Miss Smith?"
+
+"Let me think," said Miss Smith.
+
+She rested her chin on her hand and one or two puckers came into her
+brow, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth. After a moment or
+two her face brightened.
+
+"Is the money English money, little girl?" she said.
+
+"Yes," answered Cecile; "the captain on board the boat from England
+did change some, but all the French money is gone now."
+
+"That won't do at all, Cecile; you must have French money. Now, my
+dear, will you kindly take that eleven pounds out of your purse and
+reckon it before me?"
+
+Cecile did so--eleven sovereigns lay glittering and tempting on Miss
+Smith's table.
+
+"There, child, I am going to put on my bonnet and shawl, and I shall
+take that money out with me, and be back again in a few moments. You
+wait here, Cecile, I will bring back French money; you watch your
+purse until I return."
+
+While Miss Smith was out, there came a ring to the door bell, and
+the little fresh-colored English servant brought in a letter, and
+laid it beside the purse which Cecile stood near, but did not offer
+to touch.
+
+In about twenty minutes Miss Smith reappeared. She looked excited,
+and even cheerful.
+
+"It does me good to help one of the Lord's little ones," she said,
+"and it does me good to hear the English tongue; except from Molly, I
+never hear it now, and Molly goes to-morrow. Well, never mind. Now,
+Cecile, listen to me. Do you see this bag? It is big, and heavy, it
+is full of your money; twenty-five francs for every sovereign--two
+hundred and seventy-five francs in all. You could not carry that
+heavy bag about with you; it would be discovered, and you would be
+robbed at once.
+
+"But I have hit on a plan. See! I have brought in another parcel
+--this parcel contains cotton wool. I perceive that little frock you
+have on has three tucks in it. I am going to unpick those tucks, and
+line them softly with cotton wool, and lay the francs in the cotton
+wool. I will do it cleverly, and no one will guess that any money
+could be hidden in that common little winsey frock. Now, child, you
+slip it off, and I will put the money in, and I will give you a
+needle and thread and a nice little sharp scissors, and every night
+when folks are quite sound asleep, and you are sure no one is
+looking, you must unpick enough of one of the tucks to take out one
+franc, or two francs, according as you want them; only be sure you
+sew the tuck up again. The money will make the frock a trifle heavy,
+and you must never take it off your back whatever happens until you
+get to the English girl; but I can hit on no better plan,"
+
+"I think it is a lovely, lovely plan," said Cecile, and then she
+slipped off the little frock, and Miss Smith wrapped her carefully in
+an old shawl of her own; and the next two hours were spent in
+skillfully lining the tucks with their precious contents.
+
+When this was finished Miss Smith got a hot iron, and ironed the
+tucks so skillfully that they looked as flat as they had done before.
+Some of the money, also, she inserted in the body of the frock, and
+thus enriched, it was once more put on by Cecile.
+
+"Now, Cecile," said Miss Smith, "I feel conceited, for I don't
+believe anyone will ever think of looking there for your money; and I
+am to keep the Russia-leather purse and the forty pounds and they are
+for an English girl called Lovedy. How shall I know her when she
+comes, or will you only return to fetch them yourself, little one?"
+
+"I should like that best" said Cecile; "but I might die, or be very
+ill, and then Lovedy would never get her money. Miss Smith, perhaps
+you will write something on a little bit of paper, and then give the
+paper to me, and if I cannot come myself I will give the paper to
+Lovedy, or somebody else; when you see your own bit of paper again,
+then you will know that you are to give Lovedy's purse to the person
+who gives you the paper."
+
+"That is not a bad plan," said Miss Smith; "at least," she added, "I
+can think of no better. I will write something then for you, Cecile."
+
+She forthwith provided herself with a sheet of paper and a pen and
+wrote as follows:
+
+"Received this day of Cecile D'Albert the sum of Forty Pounds, in
+four Bank of England notes, inclosed in a Russia-leather purse. Will
+return purse and money to the bearer of this paper whoever that
+person may be.
+
+"So help me God. HANNAH SMITH."
+
+As Hannah Smith added those words, "So help me God," a deep flush
+came to her pale face and the thin hand that held the pen trembled.
+
+"There, Cecile," she said, "you must keep that little piece of paper
+even more carefully than the money, for anyone who secured this might
+claim the money. I will sew it into your frock myself." Which the
+good soul did; and then the old maid blessed the child, and she went
+away.
+
+Long after Cecile had left her, Miss Smith sat on by the table--that
+purse untouched by her side.
+
+"A sudden and sore temptation," she said, at last, aloud. "But it
+did not last. So help me God, it will never return--SO HELP ME GOD."
+
+Then she fell on her knees and began to pray, and as she prayed she
+wept.
+
+It was nearly an hour before the lonely Englishwoman rose from her
+knees. When she did so, she took up the purse to put it by. In doing
+this, she for the first time noticed the letter which had arrived
+when she was out. She opened it, read it hastily through. Then Miss
+Smith, suddenly dropping both purse and letter fell on her knees again.
+
+The letter contained the offer of a much better situation as English
+teacher than the one she had been deprived of. Thus did God send both
+the temptation and the deliverance almost simultaneously.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+A MIDNIGHT SEARCH.
+
+
+Anton had to wait a long time, until he felt both cross and
+impatient, and when at last Cecile and Maurice returned to the funny
+little attic in the Cite, Joe almost immediately followed them.
+
+Joe told the children that he had made very exact inquiries, and
+that he believed they might start for the south the next day. He
+spoke, of course, in English, and, never supposing that Anton knew a
+word of that tongue was at no pains to refrain from discussing their
+plans in his presence.
+
+Anton, apparently engaged in puffing a pipe in a corner of the room
+with his eyes half shut, looking stupid and half asleep, of course
+took in every word.
+
+"They would start early the next morning. Oh, yes! they were more
+than welcome; they might go to the south, the farther from him the
+better, always provided that he secured the purse first."
+
+As he smoked, he laid his plans. He was quite sure that one of the
+children had the purse. He suspected the one to be Joe. But to make
+sure, he determined to search all three.
+
+He must search the children that night. How should he accomplish his
+search?
+
+He thought. Bad ideas came to him. He went out.
+
+He went straight to a chemist's, and bought a small quantity of a
+certain powder. This powder, harmless in its after-effects, would
+cause very sound slumber. He brought in, and contrived, unseen by
+anyone, to mix it in the soup which the old grandmother was preparing
+for the evening meal. All--Pericard, Toby--all should partake of this
+soup. Then all would sleep soundly, and the field would be open for
+him; for he, Anton, would be careful not to touch any.
+
+He had made arrangements before with the old grandmother to have a
+shake-down for the night in one of her rooms; from there it would be
+perfectly easy to step into the little attic occupied by the
+children, and secure the precious purse.
+
+His plans were all laid to perfection, and when he saw six hungry
+people and a dog partaking eagerly of good Mme. Pericard's really
+nourishing soup, he became quite jocund in his glee.
+
+An hour afterward the drugged food had taken effect. There was not a
+sound in the attics. Anton waited yet another hour, then, stepping
+softly in his stockinged feet, he entered the little room, where he
+felt sure the hidden treasure awaited him.
+
+He examined Joe first. The lad was so tired, and the effect of the
+drug so potent, that Anton could even turn him over without
+disturbing his slumbers. But, alas! feel as he would, there was no
+purse about Joe--neither concealed about his person, nor hidden under
+his pillow, was any trace of what Anton hoped and longed to find.
+Half a franc he took, indeed, out of the lad's pocket--half a franc
+and a couple of centimes; but that was all.
+
+Anton had to own to himself that whoever had the purse, Joe had it
+not.
+
+He went over to the next bed, and examined little Maurice. He even
+turned Toby about.
+
+Last of all, he approached where Cecile lay. Cecile, secure in her
+perfect trust in the heavenly Guide, sure of the righteousness of her
+great quest, was sleeping as such little ones sleep. Blessed dreams
+were filling her peaceful slumbers, and there is no doubt that angels
+were guarding her.
+
+The purity of the white face on which the moon shone filled the bad
+man who approached her with a kind of awe. He did not call the
+feeling that possessed him by that name; nevertheless, he handled the
+child reverently.
+
+He felt under the pillow, he felt in the little frock. Ah! good and
+clever Miss Smith! so thoroughly, so well had she done her work, that
+no touch of hard metal came to Anton's fingers, no suspicion of the
+money so close to him entered his head.
+
+Having heard at Warren's Grove of a purse, it never occurred to him
+to expect money in any other way. No trace of that Russia-leather
+purse was to be found about Cecile. After nearly an hour spent in
+prowling about, he had to leave the children's room discomfited;
+discomfited truly, and also not wholly unpunished. For Toby, who had
+been a good deal satisfied with rolls and morsels of butter, in the
+feast made earlier in the day by Pericard, had taken so sparingly of
+the soup that he was very slightly drugged, and Anton's movements,
+becoming less cautious as he perceived how heavy was the sleep over
+the children, at last managed to wake the dog. What instinct was over
+Toby I know not. But he hated Anton. He now followed him unperceived
+from the room, and, just as he got into the passage outside, managed
+to insert his strong teeth deep into his leg. The pain was sharp and
+terrible, and the thief dared not scream. He hit Toby a blow, but not
+a very hard one, for the dog was exactly behind him. Toby held on for
+a moment or two, ascertained that the wound was both deep and
+painful, then retreated to take up his post by Cecile's pillow. Nor
+did the faithful creature close his eyes again that night. Anton,
+too, lay awake. Angry and burning were his revengeful thoughts. He
+was more determined than ever to find the purse, not to let his
+victims escape him. As to Toby, he would kill him if he could. There
+seemed little doubt now that the children had not the purse with
+them. Still Anton remembered Joe's confused manner when he had
+sounded him on the subject of money. Anton felt sure that Joe knew
+where the purse was. How could he force his secret from the lad? How
+could he make him declare where the gold was hidden? A specious,
+plausible man, Anton had, as I before said, made friends with Joe.
+Joe in a moment of ill-advised confidence had told to Anton his own
+sad history. Anton pondering over it now in the darkness, for there
+was no moon shining into _his_ bedroom, felt that he could
+secure a very strong hold over the lad.
+
+Joe had been apprenticed to a Frenchman, who taught him to dance and
+play the fiddle. Anton wondered what the law bound these apprentices
+to. He had a hazy idea that, if they ran away, the punishment was
+severe. He hoped that Joe had broken the law. Anton resolved to learn
+more about these apprentice laws. For this purpose he rose very early
+in the morning and went out. He was absent for about two hours. When
+he returned he had learned enough to make up a bad and frightening
+tale. Truly his old plans had been defeated in the night. But in the
+morning he had made even worse than these. He came in to find the
+children awakening from the effects of their long slumber, and Joe
+audibly lamenting that they were not already on their way.
+
+"Not yet," said Anton, suddenly dropping his French and speaking to
+the astonished children in English as good as their own, "I have a
+word to say about that same going away. You come out with me for a
+bit, my lad."
+
+Joe, still heavy from the drug, and too amazed to refuse, even if he
+wished to do so, stumbled to his feet and obeyed.
+
+Cecile and Maurice chatted over the wonderful fact of Anton knowing
+English, and waited patiently. There was no Pericard to amuse them to-day;
+he had gone out long ago. They waited one hour--two hours--three hours,
+still no Joe appeared. At the end of about four hours there was a
+languid step on the stairs, and the lad who had gone away--God knows
+with how tranquil a heart--reappeared.
+
+Where was his gayety? Where had the light in his dark eyes vanished
+to? His hands trembled. Fear was manifest on his face. He came
+straight up to Cecile, and clasping her little hands between both his
+own, which trembled violently, spoke.
+
+"Oh, Cecile! he's a bad man. He's a bad, bad man, and I am ruined.
+We're all ruined, Cecile. Is there any place we can hide in--is there
+any place? I must speak to you, and he'll be back in half an hour. I
+must speak to you, Cecile, before he comes back."
+
+"Let's run away," said Cecile promptly. "Let's run away at once
+before he comes again. There must be lots of hiding places in Paris.
+Oh! here's Pericard. Pericard, I know, is faithful. You ask Pericard
+to hide us, Joe. To hide us at once before Anton comes back."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+A PLAN.
+
+
+Cecile, impelled by some instinct, had said: "I know Pericard is
+faithful."
+
+Joe, now turning to the French boy, repeated these few words in his
+best French:
+
+"She says she knows you are faithful. We are in great danger--in
+great danger from that bad man Anton. Will you hide us and not betray
+us?"
+
+To this appeal Cecile had added power by coming up and taking
+Pericard's hand. He gave a look of devotion to his little princess,
+nodded to Joe, and, bidding them all follow him, and quickly, left
+the room.
+
+Down the stairs he took the children, down, down, down! at last they
+reached the cellars. The cellars, too, were full of human beings; but
+interested in their own most varied pursuits and callings, they took
+little notice of the children. They went through one set of cellars,
+then through another, then through a third. At the third Pericard
+stopped.
+
+"You are safe here," he said. "These cellars have nothing to say to
+our house. No one lives in them. They are to be let next week. They
+are empty now. You will only have the company of the rats here. Don't
+be afraid of them. If you don't fight them they won't come nigh you,
+and, anyhow, Toby will keep 'em away. I'll be back when it grows
+dark. Don't stir till I return. Anton shan't find you here. Little
+Miss is right. Pericard will be faithful."
+
+After having delivered this little speech in French, Pericard turned
+a rusty key in a lock behind the children, then let himself out by an
+underground passage directly into the street.
+
+"Now, Joe," said Cecile, coming up at once to where the poor boy was
+standing, "we are safe here, safe for a little. What is the matter?
+What is wrong, dear Joe?"
+
+"Maurice must not hear," said Joe; "it will only make things still
+harder if little Maurice hears what I have got to say."
+
+"Maurice will not care to hear. See, how sleepy he looks? There is
+some straw in that corner, some nice clean straw; Maurice shall lie
+down on it, and go to sleep. I can't make out why we are all so
+sleepy; but Maurice shall have a good sleep, and then you can talk to
+me. Toby will stay close to Maurice."
+
+To this arrangement Maurice himself made no objection. He could
+scarcely keep his eyes open, and the moment he found himself on the
+bed of straw was sound asleep.
+
+Toby, in obedience to Cecile's summons, sat down by his side, and
+then the little girl returned to Joe.
+
+"No one can hear us now. What is wrong, Jography?"
+
+"This is wrong," said Joe, in a low, despairing voice: "I'm a ruined
+lad. Ef I don't rob you, and become a thief, I'm a quite ruined lad.
+I'll never, never see my mother nor my brother Jean. I'm quite
+ruined, Missie, dear."
+
+"But how, Joe. How?"
+
+"Missie, that man wot come wid us all the way from Normandy, he's a
+spy and a thief. He wants yer purse, Missie, darling, and he says as
+he'll get it come what may. He wor at that farm in Kent when you was
+there, and he heard all about the purse, and he wor determined to get
+it. That wor why he tried to make friends wid us, and would not let
+out as he knew a word of English. Then last night he put some'ut in
+the soup to make us hall sleep sound, and he looked for the purse and
+he could not find it; and this morning he called me away, to say as
+he knows my old master wot I served in Lunnon, and that I wor
+apprenticed quite proper to him, and that by the law I could not run
+away without being punished. He said, Anton did, that he would lock
+me hup in prison this werry day, and then go and find Massenger, and
+give me back to him. I am never, never to see my old mother now. For
+I'm to go to prison if I don't give up yer purse to Anton, Missie."
+
+"But you would not take the Russia-leather purse that I was given to
+take care of for Lovedy? You would rather be shut up in prison than
+touch my purse or gold?" said Cecile.
+
+It was nearly dark in the cellar; but the child's eyes shining with
+a steadfast light, were looking full at Joe. He returned their gaze
+as steadfastly.
+
+"Missie, dear, 'tis a hard thing to give up seeking of yer own
+mother, and to go back to blows and starvation. But Joe 'ull do it.
+He once said, Missie Cecile, that he'd rayther be cut in pieces nor
+touch that purse o' gold. This is like being cut in pieces. But I'll
+stand up to wot I said. I'll go wid Anton when he comes back. But wot
+puzzles me is, how he'll get the purse from you, Missie? and how ere
+you two little mites ever to find Lovedy without your Joe to guide
+yer?"
+
+"Yes, Joe, you shall guide us; for now I have got something to say
+--such a wonderful, wonderful thing, Joe dear."
+
+Then Cecile related all about her strange dream, all about Pericard
+taking them to the Faubourg St. G----, then of her finding Miss
+Smith, of her intrusting the purse to Miss Smith, and finally of the
+clever, clever manner in which Miss Smith had sewn the money that was
+necessary to take them to the south of France into her little winsey
+frock. All this did Cecile tell with glowing cheeks and eager voice,
+and only one mistake did she make. For, trusting Joe fully, she
+showed him the little piece of paper which anyone presenting to Miss
+Smith could obtain the purse in exchange.
+
+Poor Joe! he bitterly rued that knowledge by and by, but now his
+feelings were all thankfulness.
+
+"Then Anton can't get the purse: you ha'n't got it to give to him!"
+
+"No; and if he comes and finds us, I will tell him so my own self;
+it won't do him no good putting you in prison, for he shan't never
+get Lovedy's purse."
+
+"Thank God," said Joe, in a tone of deep and great relief. "Oh!
+Missie, that's a good, good guide o' your'n, and poor Joe 'ull love
+Him now."
+
+"Yes, Jography, was it not lovely, lovely of Him? I know He means
+you to go on taking care of us little children; and, Jography, I'm
+only quite a little girl, but I've got a plan in my head, and you
+must listen. My Aunt Lydia wanted to get the purse; and me and
+Maurice, we ran away from her and afterward we saw her again in
+London, and she wanted our purse we were sure, and then we ran away
+again. Now, Joe, could not we run away this time too? Why should we
+see that wicked, wicked Anton any more?"
+
+"Yes, Missie, but he's werry clever; werry clever indeed, Anton is,
+and he 'ud foller of us; he knows 'tis down south we're going, and
+he'd come down south too."
+
+"Yes; but, Joe, perhaps south is a big place, as big as London or
+Paris, it might not be so easy for him to find us; you might get safe
+back to your old mother and your good brother Jean, and I might see
+Lovedy before Anton had found us again, then we should not care what
+he did; and, Jography, what I've been thinking is that as we're in
+great danger, it can't be wrong to spend just a franc or two out of
+my winsey frock on you, and when Pericard comes back this evening
+I'll ask him to direct us to some place where a train can take us all
+a good bit of the way. You don't know how fast the train took me and
+Maurice and Toby to London, and perhaps it would take us a good bit
+of the way south so that Anton could not find us; that is my plan,
+Joe, and you won't have to go to prison, Joe, dear."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+AN ESCAPE.
+
+
+It was very late, in fact quite night, when Pericard returned. By
+this time the rats had come out in troops, and even Toby could
+scarcely keep them at bay. He barked, however, loudly, and ran about,
+and so kept them from absolutely attacking the children. By this,
+however, he exposed them to another danger, for his noise must soon
+have been heard in the street above, and it was well for them that
+the cellar in which they were hiding was not in the same house with
+Anton.
+
+It was, as I said, quite late at night when Pericard arrived. He let
+himself in, not by the entrance through which he had come previously,
+but by the underground passage. He carried a dark lantern in one
+hand, and a neat little basket in the other. Never was knight of old
+more eagerly welcomed than was this French boy now by the poor little
+prisoners. They were all cold and hungry, and the rushing and
+scraping of the rats had filled their little hearts with most natural
+alarm.
+
+Pericard came in softly, and laying down his dark lantern proceeded
+to unpack the contents of the basket. It contained cold sausages,
+broken bits of meat, and some rolls buttered and cut in two: there
+was also a pint bottle of _vin ordinaire_.
+
+Pericard broke the neck of the bottle on the cellar wall. He then
+gave the children a drink by turns in a little tin mug.
+
+"And now," he said in French, "we must be off. Anton is in the
+house; he is waiting for you all; he is roaring with anger and rage;
+he would be out looking for you, but luckily--or you could not escape
+--he is lame. The brave good dog bit him severely in the leg, and now
+he cannot walk; and the grandmere has to poultice his leg. He thinks
+I have gone to fetch you, for I pretend to be on his side. You have
+just to-night to get away in; but I don't answer for the morning, for
+Anton is so dying to get hold of Joe there that he will use his leg,
+however he suffers, after to-night. You have just this one short
+night in which to make your escape."
+
+Then Joe told Cecile's plan to Pericard, and Pericard nodded, and
+said it was good--only he could not help opening his eyes very widely
+at the idea of three such little beggars, as he termed the children,
+being able to afford the luxury of going by train. As, however, it
+was impossible and, dangerous to confide in him any further, and as
+Cecile had already given Joe the number of francs they thought they
+should require out of her frock, he had to bear his curiosity in
+silence.
+
+Pericard, who was well up to Paris, and knew not only every place of
+amusement, nearly every stall-owner, nearly every trade, and every
+possible way of securing a sou, but also had in his head a fund of
+odd knowledge with regard to railway stations, could now counsel the
+children what station to go to, and even what train to take on their
+way south.
+
+He said they would probably be in time if they started at once to
+catch a midnight train to Orleans; that for not too large a sum they
+might travel third-class to Orleans, which city they would reach the
+next morning. It was a large place, and as it would be impossible for
+Anton to guess that they had gone by train at all, they would have
+such a good start of him that he would probably not be able to find
+them again.
+
+Pericard also proposed that they should start at once, and as they
+had no money to spare for cabs or omnibuses, they must walk to the
+distant terminus from which they must start for the south. How
+strange they felt as they walked through the gayly-lighted streets!
+How tired was Maurice! how delighted Joe! how dreamy and yet calm and
+trustful, was Cecile. Since the vision about her purse, her absolute
+belief in her Guide knew no bounds.
+
+As near and dear, as certain and present, was He now to Cecile as if
+in reality he was holding her little hand; as if in reality He was
+carrying tired Maurice. He was there, the Goal was certain, the End
+sure. When they got to the great big terminus she still felt
+dreamlike, allowing Joe and Pericard to get their tickets and make
+all arrangements. Then the children and dog found themselves in a
+third-class compartment. Toby was well and skillfully hidden under
+the seat, the whistle sounded, and Pericard came close and took
+Cecile's hand. She was only a little child, but she was his princess,
+the first sweet and lovely thing he had ever seen. Cecile raised her
+lips to kiss him.
+
+"Good-by, Pericard--good Pericard--faithful Pericard."
+
+Then the train pulled slowly out of the station, and the children
+were carried into the unknown darkness, and Pericard went home. He
+never saw the children again. But all through his after-life he
+carried a memory about with him of them, and when he heard of the
+good God and the angels, this wild Paris lad would cross himself
+devoutly, and think of Cecile.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+CHILDREN'S ARCADIA.
+
+
+It was early spring in the south of France--spring, and delicious,
+balmy weather. All that dreadful cold of Normandy seemed like a
+forgotten dream. It was almost impossible to believe that the limbs
+that ached under that freezing atmosphere could be the same that now
+felt the sun almost oppressive.
+
+Little Maurice had the desire of his heart, for the sun shone all
+day long. He could pick flowers and smell sweet country air, and the
+boy born under these sunny skies revived like a tropical plant
+beneath their influence. It was a month now since the children had
+left Paris. They had remained for a day or so in Orleans, and then
+had wandered on, going farther and farther south, until at last they
+had passed the great seaport town of Bordeaux, and found themselves
+in the monotonous forests of the Landes. The scenery was not pretty
+here. The ground was flat, and for miles and miles around them swept
+an interminable growth of fir trees, each tall and straight, many
+having their bark pierced, and with small tin vessels fastened round
+their trunks to catch the turpentine which oozed slowly out. These
+trees, planted in long straight rows, and occupying whole leagues of
+country, would have been wearisome to eyes less occupied, to hearts
+less full, than those that looked out of the faces and beat in the
+breasts of the children who on foot still pursued their march. For in
+this forest Cecile's heart had revived. Before she reached Bordeaux
+she often had felt her hope fading. She had believed that her desire
+could never be accomplished, for, inquire as they would, they could
+get in none of the towns or villages they passed through any tidings
+of Lovedy. No one knew anything of an English girl in the least
+answering to her description. Many smiled almost pityingly on the
+eager little seekers, and thought the children a trifle mad to
+venture on so hopeless a search.
+
+But here, in the Landes, were villages innumerable--small villages,
+sunny and peaceful, where simple and kind-hearted folks lived, and
+barndoor-fowl strutted about happily, and the goats browsed, and
+sheep fed; and the people in these tiny villages were very kind to
+the little pilgrims, and gave them food and shelter gladly and
+cheerfully, and answered all the questions which Cecile put through
+her interpreter, Joe, about Lovedy. Though there were no tidings of
+the blue-eyed girl who had half-broken her mother's heart, Cecile
+felt that here surely, or in some such place as here, she should find
+Lovedy, for were not these exactly the villages her stepmother had
+described when she lay a-dying? So Cecile trudged on peacefully, and
+each day dawned with a fresh desire. Joe, too, was happy; he had lost
+his fear of Anton. Anton could never surely pursue him here. There
+was no danger now of his being forced back to that old dreadful life.
+The hardships, the cold, the beatings, the starvings, lay behind him;
+he was a French boy again. Soon someone would call him by his old
+forgotten name of Alphonse, and he should look into his mother's
+eyes, and then go out among the vineyards with his brother Jean. Yes,
+Joe was very happy, he was loved and he loved; he was useful, too,
+necessary indeed to the children; and every day brought him nearer to
+his beloved Pyrenees. Once amongst those mountains, he had a sort of
+idea that he soon should roll off that seven years of London cruelty
+and defilement, and become a happy and innocent child again.
+
+Of course, Maurice was joyful in the Landes; he liked the south, it
+was sunny and good, and he liked the kind peasant-women, who all
+petted the pretty boy, and fed him on the freshest of eggs and
+richest of goat's milk. But, perhaps, of all the little pilgrims,
+Toby was now the happiest--the most absolutely contented. Not a cloud
+hung over Toby's sky, not a care lingered in his mind.
+
+He was useful too--indeed he was almost the breadwinner of the
+little party. For Joe had at last taught Toby to dance, and to dance
+with skill quite remarkable in a dog of his age. No one knew what
+Toby suffered in learning that rather ponderous dance; how stiff his
+poor legs felt, how weak his back, how hard he had to struggle to
+keep his balance. But from the day that Joe had rescued the children
+in the snow, Toby had become so absolutely his friend, had so
+completely withdrawn the fear with which at first he had regarded
+him, that now, for very love of Joe, he would do what he told him. He
+learned to dance, and from the time the children left Bordeaux, he
+had really by this one accomplishment supported the little party.
+
+In the villages of the Landes the people were simple and innocent,
+they cared very little about centimes, sous, or francs; but they
+cared a great deal about amusement; and when Joe played his fiddle
+and Toby danced, they were so delighted, and so thoroughly enjoyed
+the sport, that in return they gave supper, bed, and breakfast to the
+whole party free of charge.
+
+Thus Cecile's winsey frock still contained a great many francs put
+away toward a rainy day; for, since they entered the Landes, the
+children not only spent nothing, but lived better than they had ever
+done before.
+
+Thus the days went on, and it all seemed very Arcadian and very
+peaceful, and no one guessed that a serpent could possibly come into
+so fair and innocent an Eden.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+MAURICE TAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF AFFAIRS.
+
+
+After many weeks of wandering about, the children found themselves
+in a little village, about three miles from the town of Arcachon.
+This village was in the midst of a forest covering many thousand
+acres of land. They had avoided the seaport town of Arcachon,
+dreading its fashionable appearance; but they hailed the little
+village with delight.
+
+It was a pretty place, peaceful and sunny; and here the people
+cultivated their vines and fruit trees, and lived, the poorer folks
+quite in the village, the better-off inhabitants in neat farmhouses
+close by. These farmhouses were in the midst of fields, with cattle
+browsing in the meadows.
+
+Altogether, the village was the most civilized-looking place the
+children had stopped at since they entered what had been a few years
+ago the dreary desert of the Landes. Strange to say, however, here,
+for the first time, the weary little pilgrims met with a cold
+reception. The people in the village of Moulleau did not care for
+boys who played the fiddle, and dogs that tried clumsily to accompany
+it. They looked with a fine lack of sympathy at Cecile's pathetic
+blue eyes, and Maurice was nothing more to them than a rather dirty
+little sunburnt boy.
+
+One or two of the inns even refused the children a night's lodging
+for money, and so disagreeable did those that did take them in make
+themselves that after the first night Cecile and Joe determined to
+sleep in the forest close by. it was now April, the weather was
+delicious, and in the forest of pines and oak trees not a breath of
+wind ever seemed to enter. Joe, looking round, found an old
+tumbledown hut. In the hut was a pile of dry pine needles. These pine
+needles made a much snugger bed than they had found in a rather dirty
+inn in the village; and, still greater an advantage, they could use
+this pleasant accommodation free of all charge.
+
+It was, indeed, necessary to economize, for the francs sewn into the
+winsey frock would come to an end by and by.
+
+The children found to their dismay that they had by no means taken a
+direct road to the Pyrenees, but had wandered about, and had been
+misdirected many times.
+
+There was one reason, however, which induced Cecile to stay for a
+few days in the forest close to the village of Moulleau.
+
+This was the reason: Amongst the many sunny farms around, was one,
+the smallest there, but built on a slight eminence, and resembling
+in some slight and vague way, not so much its neighbors, as the
+low-roofed, many-thatched English farmhouse of Warren's Grove. Cecile
+felt fascinated by this farm with its English frontage. She could not
+explain either her hopes or her fears with regard to it. But an
+unaccountable desire was over her to remain in the forest for a short
+time before they proceeded on their journey.
+
+"Let us rest here just one day longer," she would plead in her
+gentle way; and Joe, though seeing no reason for what seemed like
+unnecessary delay, nevertheless yielded to her demand.
+
+He was not idle himself. As neither fiddling nor dancing seemed to
+pay, he determined to earn money in some other manner; so, as there
+were quantities of fir cones in the forests, he collected great piles
+and took them into Arcachon for sale.
+
+While Joe was away, sometimes accompanied by Maurice, sometimes
+alone, Cecile would yield to that queer fascination, which seemed
+unaccountable, and wander silently, and yet with a certain anxiety to
+the borders of that English-looking farm.
+
+Never did she dare to venture within its precincts. But she would
+come to the edge of the paling which divided its rich meadows from
+the road, and watch the cattle browsing, and the cocks, and hens, and
+ducks and geese, going in and out, with wistful and longing eyes.
+
+Once, from under the low and pretty porch, she saw a child run
+eagerly, with shouts of laughter. This child, aged about two, had
+golden hair and a fair skin. Cecile had seen no child like him
+in the village. He Looked like an English boy. How did he and that
+English-looking farm get into the sequestered forest of the Landes?
+
+After seeing the child, Cecile went back to her hut, sat down on the
+pine needles, and began to think.
+
+Never yet had she obtained the faintest clew to her search.
+
+Looking everywhere for blue eyes and golden hair, it seemed to
+Cecile that such things had faded from the earth. And now! but no,
+what would bring the English girl Lovedy there?
+
+Why should Lovedy be at Moulleau more than at any other village in
+the Landes? and in any case what had the English-looking child to say
+to Lovedy?
+
+Cecile determined to put any vague hopes out of her head. They must
+leave Moulleau the next morning; that she had promised Joe. Whenever
+Lovedy did come across their path, she would come in very different
+guise. But still, try as she would, Cecile's thoughts returned over
+and over again to the golden-haired laddie, and these thoughts, which
+came almost against her will, might have led to results which would
+have quickly solved her difficulties, but for an event which occurred
+just then.
+
+This event, terrible and anxious, put all remembrance of the English
+farm and English child far from her mind.
+
+Joe had made rather a good day at Arcachon selling his pine cones;
+and Maurice, who had gone with him, and had tried in his baby fashion
+to help him, had returned to the hut very tired, and so sleepy that,
+after eating a little bread and fruit, he lay down on the pine
+needles and went sound asleep. Generally tired and healthy, little
+Maurice slept without moving until the morning. But this night,
+contrary to his wont, he found himself broad awake before Cecile or
+Joe had lain down. Joe, a lighted fir cone in his hand, which he
+carefully guarded from the dry pine needles, was sitting close to
+Cecile, who was reading aloud to him out of the Testament which Mrs.
+Moseley had given to her. Cecile read aloud to Joe every night, and
+this time her solemn little voice stumbled slowly over the words, "He
+that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me."
+
+"I think as that is a bit hard," interrupted Joe. "I wonder ef Jesus
+could tell wot a hankering a feller has fur his mother when he ain't
+seen her fur seven years? Why, Miss Cecile, I'm real starved fur my
+mother. I dreams of her hevery night, and I feels as tho' we 'ud
+never, never get back to the dear blue mountains again. No,"
+continued Joe, shaking his dark head, "I never, never could love
+Jesus better nor my mother."
+
+"I don't remember my mother," said Cecile; "and I think I love Jesus
+the Guide even better than I love Maurice. But oh, Joe, I'm a selfish
+little girl. I ought not to stay on here when you want to see your
+mother so very badly. We will start to your mountains quite, quite
+early in the morning, Joe."
+
+"Thank yer, Missie," said Joe, with a very bright smile; and then,
+having put the pine carefully out, the two children also lay down to
+sleep.
+
+But little Maurice, who had heard every word, was still quite wide
+awake. Maurice, who loved his forest life, and who quite hated these
+long and enforced marches, felt very cross. Why should they begin to
+walk again? _He_ had no interest in these long and interminable
+rambles. How often his feet used to ache! How blistered they often
+were! And now that the weather was so warm and sunny, little Maurice
+got tired even sooner than in the winter's cold. No; what he loved
+was lying about under the pine trees, and watching the turpentine
+trickling very slowly into the tin vessels fastened to their trunks;
+and then he liked to look at the squirrels darting merrily from bough
+to bough, and the rabbits running about, and the birds flying here
+and there. This was the life Maurice loved. This was south. Cecile
+had always told him they were going south. Well, was not this south,
+this pleasant, balmy forest-land. What did they want with anything
+further? Maurice reflected with dismay over the tidings that they
+were to leave quite early in the morning. He felt inclined to cry, to
+wake Cecile, to get her to promise not to go. Suddenly an idea, and
+what he considered quite a brilliant idea, entered his baby mind.
+Cecile and Joe had arranged to commence their march quite early in
+the morning. Suppose--suppose he, Maurice, slipped softly from the
+old hut and hid himself in the forest. Why, then, they would not go;
+they would never dream of leaving Maurice behind. He could come back
+to them when the sun was high in the heavens; and then Joe would
+pronounce it too hot to go on any journey that day. Thus he would
+secure another long day in his beloved woods.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+AN OGRE IN THE WOOD.
+
+
+Full of his idea, Maurice slept very little more that night. He
+tossed from side to side on the pine needles. But though he felt
+often drowsy, he was afraid to yield to the sensation; and early,
+very early in the morning, before the sun had risen, he got up. Going
+to the door of the hut, he stood there for a moment or so looking
+down into the forest. Just around the little hut there was a clearing
+of trees; but the forest itself looked dark. The trees cast long
+shadows, and Maurice felt rather nervous at the idea of venturing
+into their gloom. Suddenly, however, he heard a bird sing clear and
+sweet up into the sky, and the next moment two squirrels darted past
+his feet.
+
+These two events decided him: the day was coming on apace, and soon
+Cecile and Joe would wake and begin to prepare for their journey.
+Without waiting to look around, he stepped into the dark shadows of
+the trees; and, in a moment, his little figure was lost in the gloom.
+To enable him to creep very quietly away--so quietly that even Toby
+should not awake--he had decided not to put on his shoes and
+stockings, and he now ran along the grass with his bare feet. He
+liked the sensation. The grass felt both cool and soft, and he began
+to wonder why he had ever troubled himself with such clumsy, tiresome
+things as shoes and stockings.
+
+The sun had now risen, and the forest was no longer dark; and
+Maurice, looking back, saw that he had quite lost sight of the hut.
+He also, at the same moment, discovered, growing in great clusters,
+almost at his feet, dog violets, some as large as heart's-ease.
+
+He gave a little cry of delight. He was very fond of flowers, and he
+decided to pick a great bunch to bring back to Cecile; in case she
+was a little vexed with him, she would be sure to be pacified by this
+offering.
+
+He therefore sat down on the grass, and picked away at the violets
+until he had filled both his hands.
+
+Then hearing, or fancying he heard, a little rustling in the grass,
+and thinking it might be Joe coming in search of him, he set off
+running again.
+
+This time he was not so fortunate. A great thorn found its way into
+the little naked foot; the poor child gave a cry of pain, then sat
+plump down; he found that he could not walk another step. The day had
+now fully come, and the forest was alive with sights and sounds.
+Maurice was too young, too much of a baby to feel at all frightened.
+The idea of getting lost never even occurred to him. He said to
+himself that, as he could not possibly walk on his lame and swollen
+foot, he would wait quietly where he had planted himself, until
+Cecile or Joe or Toby found him out.
+
+This quiet waiting resulted, as might have been expected, in the
+little fellow making up for the night's wakefulness, and soon he was
+sound asleep, his pretty head resting on his violets.
+
+For several hours tired little Maurice slept. When at last he opened
+his eyes, a man was sitting by his side.
+
+He looked at him for a moment sleepily and peacefully out of his
+velvet brown eyes; then sitting up, he exclaimed in a tone of joyful
+recognition:
+
+"Anton!"
+
+Anton--for it was indeed he--looked into the innocent face with his
+own guilty one, then nodded in the affirmative.
+
+Maurice, having no idea of fearing Anton, knowing nothing about the
+purse of gold, and being on the whole rather prepossessed in his
+favor than otherwise, exclaimed:
+
+"How did you come, Anton? did you find Cecile and Joe, and did they
+send you for me? and have I slept a long, long time, Anton? It is
+quite too late to begin a journey to-day?"
+
+"'Tis about noon, lad," replied Anton; "quite the hottest time of
+the day; and I have not seen no Joe, nor no Cecile, though I wants to
+see 'em; I ha' been a-looking fur 'em ever since they turned tail in
+that shabby way in Paris. I has a little debt to settle wid 'em two,
+and I'd like to see 'em again."
+
+"Oh! do you owe them money, and will you pay it? I am sure they'll
+be glad for that, for sometimes I hear Cecile say that she is afraid
+their money won't hold out, the journey is so very long. I am glad
+you owe 'em money, Anton; and as it is past noon, and they won't
+start to-day, we may as well go back to the hut at once. Oh! won't
+they be surprised ta see you, Anton?"
+
+Anton remained silent for a moment, his head buried in his hands. He
+was evidently thinking hard, and once he was heard to mutter, "a
+lucky chance; a rare and lucky chance." Then he raised his head again
+and looked at Maurice.
+
+"The others are in a hut, a hut in the forest, eh?"
+
+"Oh, yes! quite a nice, snug little hut, and not so very far from
+here. We sleep on pine needles in the hut, and they are so soft and
+snug; and, Anton, I don't want to leave it. I like the forest, and I
+hate long, long walks; I'd rather stay in the hut,"
+
+"How far away did you say it wor, lad?"
+
+"Oh! not so very far away. I ran out quite early this morning, and I
+came down hill; and at last when I lost breath I stopped and gathered
+all these violets. Oh, they are withered--my poor violets! And then I
+ran a little bit and got this thorn into my foot, and after that I
+could walk no more. The hut can't be a great way off. Will you carry
+me back to it, Anton?"
+
+Anton laughed.
+
+"'Will I carry him?' did he say?" he exclaimed in a tone of some
+derision. "Well, wot next? I ain't strong enough to carry sech a big
+chap as you, my lad. No, no; but I'll tell you wot I'll do: I'll take
+you over to a comrade o' mine as is waiting for me jest outside the
+forest, quite close by. He's a bit of a doctor, and he'll take the
+thorn out of your foot; and while he's doing it, I'll run down to the
+hut and bring that big Joe o' yourn back. He'll carry you fine--he
+ain't a weakly chap like me."
+
+"Poor Anton!" said little Maurice, "I forgot that you were weak.
+Yes, that's a very kind plan." And he stretched out his arms for
+Anton to carry him just the little distance to his comrade at the
+other side of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+THREE PLANS.
+
+
+It took Anton but a few strides to get out of the forest, at the
+other side away from the hut. Here, on a neatly-made road, stood a
+caravan; and by the side of the caravan two men. These men could not
+speak a word of English, and even their French was so mixed with
+dialect that little Maurice, who by this time knew many words of real
+French, did not understand a word they said. This, however, all the
+better suited Anton's purpose. He had a short but impressive
+conversation with the man who seemed to have the greatest authority.
+Maurice was then given over into this man's care. Anton assured him
+that he would return as quickly as possible with Joe. And then the
+bad man plunged once more into the depths of the forest.
+
+Yes; Anton was most truly a bad man, and bad now were the schemes at
+work in his evil heart. He saw once more a hope of getting that money
+which he longed for. He would use any means to obtain this end. After
+the children had escaped from him in Paris, he had wandered about for
+nearly a week in that capital looking for them. Then he had agreed to
+join a traveling caravan which was going down south. Anton could
+assist in the entertainments given in the different small towns and
+villages they passed through; but this mode of proceeding was
+necessarily slow, and seemed all the more so as week after week went
+by and he never got a clew to the lost children; he was beginning to
+give it up as a bad job--to conclude that Cecile and her party had
+never gone south after all. He had indeed all but completed
+arrangements to return to Paris with another traveling party, when
+suddenly, wandering through the forest in the early morning, he came
+upon little Maurice D'Albert fast asleep--his crushed violets under
+his pretty head. Transfixed with joy and astonishment, the bad man
+stood still. His game was sure--it had not escaped him.
+
+He sat down by the child. He did not care to wake him. While Maurice
+slept he made his plans.
+
+And now, having given over Maurice to the owner of the caravan, with
+strict directions not to let him escape, he was hurrying through the
+forest to meet Joe. He wanted to see Joe alone. It would by no means
+answer his purpose to come across Cecile or even indeed at present to
+let Cecile know anything about his near vicinity.
+
+Little Maurice's directions had been simple enough, and soon Anton
+came in sight of the hut. He did not want to come any nearer. He sat
+down behind an oak tree, and waited. From where he sat, he could
+watch the entrance to the hut, but could not himself be seen.
+
+Presently he saw Cecile and Joe come out. Toby also stood at their
+heels. Cecile and Joe appeared to be consulting anxiously. At last
+they seemed to have come to a conclusion; Cecile and Toby went one
+way, and Joe another.
+
+Anton saw with delight that everything was turning out according to
+his best hopes; Cecile and Toby were going toward the village, while
+Joe wandered in his direction. He waited only long enough to see the
+little girl and the dog out of sight, then, rising from the ground,
+he approached Joe.
+
+The poor boy was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground. He
+seemed anxious and preoccupied. In truth he was thinking with
+considerable alarm of little Maurice. Anton came very close, they
+were almost face to face before Joe saw him.
+
+When at last their eyes did meet Anton perceived with delight that
+the boy's face went very white, that his lips twitched, and that he
+suddenly leant against a tree to support himself. These signs of fear
+were most agreeable to the wicked man. He felt that in a very short
+time the purse would be his.
+
+"Anton," said poor Joe, when he could force any words from his
+trembling lips.
+
+"Aye, Anton," echoed the man with a taunting laugh, "you seems
+mighty pleased to see Anton, old chap. You looks rare and gratified,
+eh?"
+
+"No, Anton, I'm dreadful, dreadful pained to see you," answered Joe.
+"I wor in great trouble a minute ago, but it ain't nothink to the
+trouble o' seeing you."
+
+Anton laughed again.
+
+"You ere an unceevil lad," he replied, "but strange as it may seem,
+I'm glad as you is sorry to see me, boy; it shows as you fears me; as
+you is guilty, as well you may think yerself, and you knows as Anton
+can bring yer to justice. You shall fear me more afore you has done,
+Master Joe. You 'scaped me afore, but there's no escape this time. We
+has a few words to say to each other, but the principal thing is as
+there's no escape this time, young master."
+
+"I know," answered Joe, "I know as a man like you can have no mercy
+--never a bit."
+
+"There's no good a-hangering of me wid those speeches, Joe; I ha'
+found you, and I means to get wot I can out o' you. And now jest tell
+me afore we goes any further wot you was a-doing, and why you looked
+so misribble afore I spoke to you that time."
+
+"Oh!" said Joe, suddenly recalled to another anxiety by these words,
+"wot a fool I am to stay talking to you when there ain't a moment to
+spare. Little Maurice is lost. I'm terrible feared as little Maurice
+has quite strayed away and got lost, and here am I, a-standing
+talking to you when there ain't one moment to lose. Ef you won't
+leave me, you must come along wid me, fur I'm a-looking fur little
+Maurice."
+
+Joe now prepared to start forward, though his brain was still so
+perturbed at this sudden vision of his enemy that he scarcely knew
+where he was going, or in what direction to direct his steps. In a
+couple of strides Anton overtook him.
+
+"You ha' no call to fash about the little chap," he said; "and there
+ain't no use a-looking fur him, fur I have got him."
+
+"You have got little Maurice?" said Joe. "You have stole little
+Maurice away from Cecile and me?"
+
+"I found little Maurice asleep in the wood. I have him safe. You can
+have him back whenever you pleases."
+
+"I must have little Maurice. Take me to him at once," said Joe in a
+desperate tone.
+
+"Softly, softly, lad! You shall have the little chap back. No harm
+shall happen to him. You and the little gal can have him again. Only
+one thing: I must have that ere purse first."
+
+"Oh! ain't you a wicked man?" said Joe, and now he flung himself
+full length on the grass, and burst into bitter lamentations. "Oh!
+ain't you the wickedest man in all the wide world, Anton? Cecile 'ull
+die ef she can't get little Maurice back again. Cecile 'ull die ef
+she loses that purse."
+
+Joe repeated these words over many times; in truth the poor boy was
+almost in a transport of grief and despair. Anton, however, made no
+reply whatever to this great burst of terrible sorrow, and waited
+quietly until the paroxysm had spent itself, then he too sat down on
+the grass.
+
+"Listen, Joe," he said. "'Tis no use a-blubbering afore me, or
+a-screaming hout afore me. Them things affects some folks, but they
+never takes no rises out o' me. I may be 'ard. Likely enough I am.
+Hanyhow hysterics don't go down with me. Joe Barnes--as that's the
+name wot you was known by in England--I'm _determined_ to get
+that 'ere purse. Now listen. Wot I has to say is short; wot I has to
+say is plain; from wot I has now got to say--I'll never go back. I
+lay three plans afore you, Joe Barnes. You can choose wot one you
+like best. The first plan is this: as you and Cecile keeps the
+purse, and I takes Maurice away wid me; you never see Maurice, nor
+hears of him again; I sell him to yer old master whose address I has
+in my pocket. That's the first plan. The second plan is this: that
+Maurice comes back to his sister, and _you_ comes wid me, Joe. I
+sells you once more to yer hold master, and he keeps yer
+_tight_, and you has no more chance of running away. This seems
+a sensible plan, and that 'ere little Cecile, as you sets sech store
+by, can keep her purse and her brother too. Ef you does this, Joe
+Barnes, there'll be no fear of Cecile dying--that's my second plan.
+But the third plan's the best of all. You can get that 'ere purse of
+gold. You get it, or tell me where to find it, and then you shall
+have Maurice back. Within one hour Maurice shall be with you, and you
+shall stay wid Cecile and Maurice, and I'll never, never trouble you
+no more. I calls the last the neatest plan of all, lad. Don't you?"
+
+Joe said nothing; his head was buried in his hands. Anton, however,
+saw that he was listening.
+
+"The last is the sensible plan," he said; and he laid his hand on
+the lad's shoulder.
+
+Joe started as though an adder had stung him. He threw off the
+defiling hand, and moved some paces away.
+
+"There ere the others," continued Anton. "There's the little chap
+a-being beat and starved in London, and his little heart being hall
+a-broken hup. Or _you_ can go back to the hold life, Joe Barnes;
+you're elder, and can bear it better. Yer head is tough by now, I
+guess; a big blow on it won't hurt you much; and you'll never see yer
+old mother or yer brother--but never mind. Yer whole life will be
+spent in utter misery--still, never mind, that ere dirty purse is
+safe; never mind aught else."
+
+"We han't got the purse," said Joe then, raising his haggard face.
+"'Tis the gospel truth as I'm telling you, Anton. Cecile took the
+purse to a lady in Paris to take care of fur her, and she is to keep
+it until someone gives her a bit of paper back which she writ
+herself. I can't give yer the purse, fur it ain't yere, Anton."
+
+"The bit o' paper 'ull do; the bit o' paper wid the address of the
+lady."
+
+Joe groaned.
+
+"I can't do it," he said. "I can't let Maurice go to sech a cruel
+life--I can't, I can't! I _can't_ give hup the hope o' seeing my
+old mother. I must see my old mother once again. And I can't steal
+Cecile's purse. Oh! _wot shall I do_?"
+
+"Look yere, lad," said Anton, more slowly and in a kinder tone, "you
+think it hall well hover; one o' they three plans you must stick to.
+Now I'm a-going away, but I'll be back yere to-morrow morning at four
+o'clock fur my hanswer. You ha' it ready fur me then."
+
+So saying Anton rose from the grass, and when Joe raised his face
+his enemy was gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.
+
+
+It was night again, almost a summer's night, so still, so warm and
+balmy, and in the little hut in the forest of the Landes two children
+sat very close together; Cecile had bought a candle that day in the
+village, and this candle, now well sheltered from any possible
+breeze, was placed, lighted, in the broken-down door of the little
+hut. It was Cecile's own idea, for she said to Joe that Maurice might
+come back in the cool night-time, and this light would be sure to
+guide him. Joe had lit the candle for the little girl, and secured it
+against any possible overthrow. But as she did so he shook his head
+sorrowfully.
+
+Seeing this Cecile reproved him.
+
+"I know Maurice so well," explained the little sister. "He will
+sleep for hours and hours, and then he will wake and gather flowers
+and think himself quite close to us all the time. He will never know
+how time passes, and then the night will come and he will be
+frightened and want to come back to me and Toby; and when he is
+frightened this light will guide him."
+
+Joe knowing the truth and seeing how impossible it would be for
+Maurice to return in the manner Cecile thought, could only groan
+under his breath, for he dared not tell the truth to Cecile; and this
+was one of the hardest parts of his present great trouble.
+
+"Missie Cecile," he said, when he had lit the candle and seen that
+it burned safely; "Missie, yer jest dead beat, you has never sat
+down, looking fur the little chap the whole, whole day. I'm a great
+strong fellow, I ain't tired a bit; but ef Missie 'ud lie down, maybe
+she'd sleep, and I'll stay outside and watch fur little Maurice and
+take care of the candle."
+
+"But I'd rather watch, too, outside with you, Joe. I'm trying hard,
+hard not to be anxious. But perhaps if I lie down the werry anxious
+feel may come. Just let me sit by you, and put my head on your
+shoulder; perhaps I shall rest so."
+
+"Werry well, Missie," said Joe.
+
+He seemed incapable of enforcing any arguments that night, and in a
+moment or two the children, with faithful Toby at their feet, were
+sitting just outside the hut, but where the light of the solitary
+candle could fall on them. Cecile's head was on Joe's breast, and
+Joe's strong arm encircled her.
+
+After a long pause, he said in a husky voice:
+
+"I'd like to hear that verse as Missie read to poor Joe last night.
+I'd like to hear it once again."
+
+"The last verse, Joe?" answered Cecile. "I think I know the last
+verse by heart. It is this: 'He that loveth father or mother more
+than Me, is not worthy of Me'"
+
+"My poor old mother," said Joe suddenly. "My poor, poor old mother."
+Here he covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
+
+"But, Joe," said little Cecile in a voice of surprise, "you will
+soon see your mother now--very soon, I think and hope. As soon as we
+find Maurice we will go to the Pyrenees, and there we shall see
+Lovedy and your mother and your good brother Jean. Our little Maurice
+cannot stay much longer away, and then we will start at once for the
+Pyrenees."
+
+To this Joe made no answer, and Cecile, who had intended to remain
+awake all night, in a few moments was asleep, tired out, with her
+head now resting on Joe's knees.
+
+He covered the pretty head tenderly with his great brown palm, and
+his black eyes were full of the tenderest love and sorrow as they
+looked at the little white face.
+
+How could he protect the heart of the child he loved from a sorrow
+that must break it? Only by sacrificing himself; by sacrificing
+himself absolutely. Was he prepared to do this?
+
+As he thought and Cecile slept, a great clock from the not far
+distant village struck twelve. Twelve o'clock! In four hours now
+Anton would return for his answer--what should it be?
+
+To sacrifice Maurice--that would be impossible. Even for one instant
+to contemplate sending little baby, spoiled Maurice to endure the
+life he had led, to bear the blows, the cruel words, the starvations,
+the bad company that he had endured would be utterly impossible. No;
+he could not do that. He had long ago made up his mind that Maurice
+was to come back.
+
+The question now lay between the Russia-leather purse and himself.
+
+Should he give everything up--his mother, his brother, the happy,
+happy life that seemed so near--and go back to the old and dreadful
+fate? Should he show in this way that he loved Christ more than his
+mother? Was this the kind of sacrifice that Christ demanded at his
+hands? And oh! how Joe did love his mother! All the cruel, hard,
+weary of his captivity, his mother had lived green and fresh in his
+heart. Many and many a night had he wet his wretched pillow with the
+thought of how once he had lain in that mother's arms, and she had
+petted him and showered love upon him. The memory of her face, of her
+love, of her devotion, had kept him from doing the wrong things which
+the other boys in the company had done; and now, when he might so
+soon see her, must he give her up? He knew that if he once got back
+to his old master he would take good care to keep him from running
+away again; if he put himself at four o'clock in the morning into
+Anton's hands, _it would be for life_. He might, when he was
+quite old and broken down by misery and hardship, return to France;
+but what use would it be to him then, when he had only his mother's
+grave to visit? He could escape all that; he could go back to the
+Pyrenees; he could see his mother's face once more. How? Simply by
+taking from Cecile a little piece of paper; by taking it from her
+frock as she slept. And, after all, was this paper a matter of life
+and death? Was it worth destroying the entire happiness of a life?
+for Cecile might never find Lovedy. It was only a dream of the little
+girl's, that Lovedy waited for her in the Pyrenees; there might be no
+English girl hiding there! and even if there was, did she want that
+forty pounds so badly? Must he sacrifice his whole life for the sake
+of that forty pounds? Was it not a sacrifice too hard to expect of
+any boy? True, he had given his word! he had told Cecile that he
+would rather be cut in little bits than touch her purse of gold. Yes,
+yes; but this lifelong suffering was worse than being cut in pieces.
+"He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me."
+How could he love this unknown Christ better than the mother from
+whom he had been parted for seven long years?
+
+After a time, worn out with his emotion, he dropped asleep. He had
+thought to stay awake all night; but before the village clock had
+again struck one, his head was dropped on his hands and he was sound
+asleep.
+
+In his broken sleep he had one of those dreams which he dreaded. He
+saw his mother ill and calling for him, weeping for him. A voice, he
+did not know from where it sounded, kept repeating in his ear that
+his mother was dying of a broken heart because of him; because she so
+mourned the loss of her merry boy, she was passing into the silent
+grave. The voice told him to make haste and go to his mother, not to
+lose an instant away from her side. He awoke bathed in perspiration
+to hear the village clock strike four. The hour, the hour of his fate
+had come. Even now Anton waited for him. He had no time to lose, his
+dream had decided him. He would go back at any cost to his mother.
+Softly he put down his hand and removed the precious little bit of
+paper from the bosom of Cecile's frock, then, lifting her head
+tenderly from his knees, he carried her, still sleeping, into the
+hut, bade Toby watch by her, and flung himself into the silent gloom
+of the forest.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+HARD TIMES FOR LITTLE MAURICE.
+
+
+All that long and sunny day Maurice sat contentedly on a little
+stool in the doorway of the traveling caravan. His foot, which had
+been very painful, was now nicely and skillfully dressed. The
+Frenchman, who did not know a word of English, had extracted a sharp
+and cruel thorn, and the little boy, in his delight at being free
+from pain, thanked him in the only way in his power. He gave him a
+very sweet baby kiss.
+
+It so happened that the Frenchman had a wife and a little lad
+waiting for him in the Pyrenees. Maurice reminded him of his own
+dark-eyed boy, and this sudden kiss won his heart. He determined to be
+good to the child. So first providing him with an excellent bowl of
+soup and a fresh roll, for his breakfast and dinner combined, he then
+gave him a seat in the door of the caravan, for he judged that as he
+could not amuse the little fellow by talking to him, he might by
+letting him see what he could of what was going on outside.
+
+For a long time Maurice sat still, then he grew impatient. He was no
+longer either in pain or sleepy, and he wanted to get home to Cecile;
+he wanted to tell her his adventures, and to show her the violets
+which he had gathered that morning, and which, though now quite dead
+and withered, he still held in his little hot hand. Why did not Anton
+return? What _was_ keeping Joe? It was no distance at all back
+to the hut. Of this he was sure. Why, then, did not Joe come? He felt
+a little cross as the hours went on, but it never even occurred to
+his baby mind to be frightened.
+
+It was late in the evening when Anton at last made his appearance,
+and alone. Little Maurice sprang off his stool to meet him.
+
+"Oh, Anton, what a time you've been! And where's Joe?"
+
+"Joe ain't coming to-night, young 'un," said Anton roughly.
+
+He entered the caravan with a weary step, and, throwing himself on a
+settle, demanded some supper in French of his companion.
+
+Maurice, unaccustomed to this mode of treatment, stood quite still
+for a moment, then, brushing the tears from his big brown eyes, he
+went up to Anton and touched his arm.
+
+"See," he said, "I can walk now. Kind man there made my foot nearly
+well. You need not carry me, Anton. But will you come back with me to
+the hut after you've had some supper?"
+
+"No, that I won't," answered Anton. "Not a step 'ull you get me to
+stir again to-night. You sit down and don't bother."
+
+"Cross, nasty man," replied Maurice passionately; "then I'll run
+away by myself, I will. I can walk now."
+
+He ran to the door of the caravan; of course it took Anton but a
+moment to overtake him, to catch him by his arm, and, shaking him
+violently, to lead him to an inner room, into which he flung the poor
+child, telling him roughly that he had better stay quiet and make no
+fuss, or it would be worse for him.
+
+Little Maurice raised impotent hands, beating Anton with all his
+small might. Anton laughed derisively. He turned the key on the angry
+and aggrieved child and left him to his fate.
+
+Poor little Maurice! It was his first real experience of the
+roughness of life. Hitherto Cecile had come between him and all hard
+times; hitherto, whatever hardships there were to bear, Cecile had
+borne them. It seemed to be the natural law of life to little Maurice
+that everyone should shield and shelter him.
+
+He threw himself now on the dirty floor of the caravan and cried
+until he could cry no longer. Oh, how he longed for Cecile! How he
+repented of his foolish running away that morning! How he hated
+Anton! But in vain were his tears and lamentations; no one came near
+him, and at last from utter weariness he stopped.
+
+It was dark now, quite dark in the tiny inner room where Anton had
+thrust him. Strange to say, the darkness did not frighten the little
+fellow; on the contrary, it soothed him. Night had really come. In
+the night it was natural to lie still and sleep; when people were
+asleep time passed quickly. Maurice would go to sleep, and then in
+the morning surely, surely Joe and Cecile would find him and bring
+him home.
+
+He lay down, curling himself up like a little dog, but tired as he
+was he could not sleep--not at first. He was nothing but a baby boy,
+but he had quite a retrospect or panorama passing before his eyes as
+he lay on the dirty caravan floor. He saw the old court at home; he
+saw the pretty farm of Warren's Grove; he saw that tiring day in
+London when it seemed to both Cecile and himself that they should
+never anywhere get a lodging for the night; then he was back again
+with kind, with dear Mrs. Moseley, and she was telling to him and
+Cecile those lovely, those charming stories about heaven.
+
+"I always, always said as heaven would suit me better than South,"
+sobbed the poor little boy. "I never did want to come South. I wished
+Jesus the Guide to take me to heaven. Oh, I do want to go to heaven!"
+
+Over and over he repeated this wish aloud in the darkness, and its
+very utterance seemed to soothe him, for after a time he did really
+drop asleep.
+
+He had not slept so very long when a hand touched him. The hand was
+gentle, the touch firm but quiet.
+
+Maurice awoke without any start and sat up. The Frenchman was
+bending over him. He pointed to the open door of the room--to the
+open door of the caravan beyond.
+
+"Run--run away," he said. These were the only words of English he
+could master.
+
+"Run away," he repeated and now he carried the child to the open
+outer door. Maurice understood; his face brightened; first kissing
+his deliverer, he then glided from his arms, ran down the steps of
+the caravan, and disappeared.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+THE ENGLISH FARM.
+
+
+Cecile had strange dreams that night. Her faith had hitherto been
+very simple, very strong, very fervent. Ever since that night at the
+meeting of the Salvation Army, when the earnest and longing child had
+given her heart to the One who knocked for admittance there, had she
+been faithful to her first love. She had found the Guide for whom her
+soul longed, and not all the troubles and anxieties of her long and
+weary journey--not all the perils of the way--had power to shake her
+confidence. Even in the great pain of yesterday Cecile was not
+greatly disturbed. Maurice was lost, but she had asked the good Guide
+Jesus so earnestly to bring back the little straying lamb, that she
+was quite sure he would soon be with them again. In this confidence
+she had gone to sleep. But whether it was the discomfort of her
+position in that sleep, or that Satan was in very truth come to
+buffet her; in that slumber came dreams so terrible, so real, that
+for the first time the directness of her confidence was shaken. In
+her dreams she thought she heard a voice saying to her over and over
+again: "There is no Guide--there is no Lord Jesus Christ." She
+combated the wicked suggestion even in her sleep, and awoke to cast
+it from her with indignation.
+
+It was daylight when the tired child opened her eyes. She was no
+longer lying against Joe's breast in the forest; no, she was in the
+shelter of the little hut, and Toby alone was keeping her company.
+Joe had vanished, and no Maurice had returned in the darkness as she
+had fondly hoped he would the night before. The candle had shed its
+tiny ray and burned itself out in vain. The little wanderer had not
+come back.
+
+Cecile sat up with a weary sigh; her head ached, she felt cold and
+chilly. Then a queer fancy, joined to a trembling kind of hope, came
+over her. That farm with the English frontage; that fair child with
+the English face. Suppose those people were really English? Suppose
+she went to them and asked them to help her to look for Maurice, and
+suppose, while seeking for her little brother, she obtained a clew to
+another and more protracted search?
+
+Cecile thought and thought, and though her temples throbbed with
+pain, and she trembled from cold and weariness, the longing to get as
+near as possible to this farm, where English people might dwell,
+became too great and strong to be resisted.
+
+She rose somewhat languidly, and, calling Toby, went out into the
+forest. Here the fresher air revived her, and the exercise took off a
+growing sensation of heavy illness. She walked quickly, and as she
+did so her hopes became more defined.
+
+The farm Cecile meant to reach lay about a mile from the village of
+Bolleau. It was situated on a pretty rise of ground to the very
+borders of the forest. Cecile, walking quickly, reached it before
+long; then she stood still, leaning over the paling and looking
+across the enchanted ground. This paling in itself was English, and
+the very strut of the barn-door fowl reminded her of Warren's Grove.
+How she wished that fair child to run out! How she hoped to hear even
+one word of the only language she understood! No matter her French
+origin, Cecile was all English at this moment. Toby stood by her side
+patiently enough.
+
+Toby, too, was in great trouble and perplexity about Maurice, but
+his present strongest instinct was to get at a very fat fowl which,
+unconscious of danger, was scratching up worms at its leisure within
+almost reach of his nose.
+
+Toby had a weakness, nay, a vice, in the direction of fowl; he liked
+to hunt them. He could not imagine why Cecile did not go in at that
+low gate which stood a little open close by. Where was the use of
+remaining still, in any case, so near temptation? The unwary fowl
+came close, very close. Toby could stand it no longer. He made a
+spring, a snap, and caught at its beak.
+
+Then ensued a fuss and an uproar; every fowl in the place commenced
+to give voice in the cause of an injured comrade. Cackle, cackle,
+crow, crow, from, it seemed, hundreds of throats. Toby retired
+actually abashed, and out at the same moment, from under the
+rose-covered porch, came the pretty fair-haired boy. The child was
+instantly followed by an old woman, a regular Frenchwoman, upright,
+straight as a dart, with coal-black eyes and snowy hair tidily put
+away under a tall peasant's cap.
+
+Cecile heard her utter a French exclamation, then chide pretty
+sharply the uproarious birds. Toby lying _perdu_ behind the
+hedge, the fowl were naturally chided for much ado about nothing.
+
+Just then the little boy, breaking from the restraining hand, ran
+gleefully into a field of waving corn.
+
+"Suzanne, Suzanne!" shouted the Frenchwoman in shrill tones, and
+then out flew a much younger woman, a woman who seemed, even to the
+child Cecile, very young indeed. A tall, fair young woman, with a
+face as pink and white as the boy's, and a wealth of even more golden
+hair.
+
+"Ah! you naughty little lad. Come here, Jean," she said in English;
+then catching the truant child to her bosom, she ran back with him
+into the house.
+
+Cecile felt herself turning cold, almost faint. An impulse to run
+into that farmhouse, to address that fair-haired young woman, to drag
+her story, whatever it might be, from her lips, came over her almost
+too strongly to be resisted.
+
+She might have yielded to it, she was indeed about to yield to it,
+when suddenly a voice at her elbow, calling her by her name, caused
+her to look round. There stood Joe, but Joe with a face so altered,
+so ghastly, so troubled, that Cecile scarcely knew him.
+
+"Come, Cecile, come back to the hut; I have some'ut to tell yer," he
+said slowly and in hoarse tones.
+
+And Cecile, too terrified by this fresh alarm even to remember the
+English folks who lived at the farm, followed him back into the
+forest without a word.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+TELLING THE BAD NEWS.
+
+
+All the way back to the forest not one word passed the lips of Joe.
+But when the two children, panting from their rapid run, reached the
+hut, he threw himself on the ground, covered his face for a brief
+instant, then asked Cecile to come to his side.
+
+"For I've a story to tell yer, little Missie," said Joe.
+
+Cecile obeyed him at once. A great terror was over her, but this
+terror was partly assuaged by his first words.
+
+"I ha' got some'ut to tell yer, Missie Cecile," said Joe Barnes,
+"some'ut 'bout my old life, the kind o' way I used to live in Paris
+and Lunnon."
+
+At the words Cecile raised her little flower face with a sigh of
+relief; she was not going to hear of any fresh trouble; it was only
+an old, old woe, and Joe needed comfort.
+
+"Dear Joe," said the little girl, "yes, tell me about Paris and
+London."
+
+Joe felt himself shrinking away from the little caressing movement
+Cecile made. He looked at her for an instant out of two great hollow
+eyes, then began in a dull kind of voice.
+
+"It don't make much real differ," he said, "only I thought as I'd
+like fur yer to know as it wor a _werry_ bitter temptation.
+
+"I remember the last night as I slept along o' my mother, Missie
+Cecile, how she petted me, and fondled of me.
+
+"Then I wor stolen away, and my master brought me to Paris. We lived
+in a werry low part o' Paris, high up in a garret. I wor taught to
+play the fiddle--I wor taught by blows; and when they did not do, I
+wor made real, desperate hungry. I used to be given jest one meal a
+day, and when the others as did better nor me wor eating, I had to
+stand by and wait on 'em. Then, when I knew enough, I wor sent into
+the streets to play, and when I did not bring in enough money, I wor
+beat worse nor ever. One day my master sold me to an Englishman. Talk
+o' slaves! well, this man give my master a lot o' money fur me. I
+seed the money, and they told me as I wor apprenticed to him, and
+that I could not run away, for ef I did, the law 'ud bring me back.
+My new master tuk me to England. He tuk me to Lunnon. It wor bad in
+Paris, but in Lunnon it wor worse. I wor farther from my mother. I
+wor out o' my own country, and I did not know a word of English.
+
+"Oh! I did find out wot hunger and cold and misery wor in London.
+Nobody--nobody give me even a kind word, except one poor lad worse
+off nor myself. He belonged to hour company, and he broke his leg. My
+master would not send him to 'orspitle, and he died. But afore he
+died he taught me a bit of English, and I picked up more by and by.
+I grew bigger, and the years went on. Oh! it wor a dreadful life. I
+did nothink but long for my mother and pine for the old home, and
+once I tried to run away. I wor found the first time, and kep' in a
+dark cellar on bread and water for a week arter.
+
+"Then I seed you and Maurice at the night-school. I heerd you say
+you wor goin' to France, and when I heerd sech plucky words from sech
+a little mite as you, Missie, why I thought as I'd try to run away
+again; and the second time, no matter how, I succeeded. I had wot I
+called real luck, and I got to France, and there, jest outside
+Calais, I met you two, and I thought as I wor made. Oh, Missie
+Cecile, but for the purse o' gold--but for the purse o' gold, I might
+ha' been made."
+
+Here Joe paused, again covered his face, and groaned most bitterly.
+
+"The purse of gold is quite safe with Miss Smith in Paris," said
+Cecile, in a tone of surprise. "Dear Joe, I don't quite understand
+you. Those were dreadful days, but they are over. You will soon see
+your old mother again. All the dreadful days are over, Joe dear."
+
+"Ah! Missie, but that's jest wot they ain't. But I likes to hear you
+say 'dear Joe' once again, for soon, when you know all, you'll hate
+me."
+
+"Then may I kiss you before I know all? and I don't think I _could_
+hate you, Jography."
+
+"Ah! yes," said Joe, receiving the little kiss with almost apathy,
+"you has a werry tender heart, Missie Cecile, you always seems to me
+like an angel, but even you'll hate Joe Barnes arter you know all.
+Well, yesterday, you remember how we lost little Maurice. We missed
+him when we woke in the morning. We thought as he had strayed in the
+forest, and would soon be back, and you went one way to look for him,
+and I went another. I had not gone a hundred yards when jest behind
+our hut I saw Anton! Yes, Missie, our old enemy Anton had come back
+again.
+
+"'Anton' I said; and then, Missie, oh! my dear, dear little Missie
+Cecile, I must jest tell it in few words. He said as he had stole
+little Maurice, that he had him safe, and that we should never, never
+get him back unless I give him--Anton--the purse of gold. I said as I
+had not it--that neither of us had it. But he drew out o' me about
+the little bit o' paper and he said as the paper 'ud do as well as
+the purse. He said that ef he did not get the bit o' paper, Maurice
+should go back and be sold to my dreadful old master. Either that,
+or, ef I liked it better, Maurice might come back to you, and I
+should be sold. He gave me till four o'clock this morning to think on
+it. Maurice was to go away to the dreadful life, or I was to go back
+to the dreadful life, or he was to get the paper that 'ud make Miss
+Smith give up the Russia-leather purse. Missie, I said once that I'd
+rayther be cut in little bits nor touch that purse of gold. I meant
+wot I said. But, Missie Cecile, last night the temptation wor too
+strong fur me, much too strong. Maurice must not go to sech a life,
+nor could I; never to see my mother no more; always, always to be a
+slave, and worse nor a slave; all hope gone. Oh, Missie Cecile! I did
+love my old mother more nor Christ. I ain't worthy of your Christ
+Jesus. In the morning I tuk the piece of paper out o' yer frock,
+darlin'. As the clock in the village struck four I did it. I ran away
+then, and I found Anton waiting for me where he said as he 'ud wait."
+
+"And Maurice?" asked Cecile. She was sitting strangely, unnaturally
+quiet, and when she was told that the paper was stolen she did not
+even start.
+
+"Ah, Missie! that's the worst, the worst of all; fur I did it--the
+cruel, the bad thing--for nothink. For when Anton and I went back to
+a caravan by the roadside to get Maurice (for Anton had hid him
+there), he wor gone. A man wot had charge of the caravan and horses
+said he must have run away in the night. I ha' stole yer money, and I
+ain't brought back Maurice. That's my news, Missie."
+
+"Yes," said Cecile vaguely, "that's the news." She was still quiet--so
+quiet that one would suppose she scarcely felt. This was true; the
+blow was so sudden and sharp that it produced no pain as yet, but her
+usually sweet and tranquil blue eyes had a dazed and startled look,
+and her hands were locked tightly together.
+
+Joe, frightened more by a calm so unnatural than he would be by any
+exclamation, threw himself on the ground at her feet.
+
+"Oh, Miss Cecile--my little lady, my little princess, who I love--I
+know I ha' broke yer heart; I know it bitter well. But don't, don't
+look like that. I know I ha' broke yer heart, and you can never,
+never forgive me--but oh! don't, don't look like that."
+
+"Yes, Jography, I do forgive you," answered Cecile. "It was a
+dreadful temptation; it was too strong for you, poor Jography. Yes,
+perhaps my heart is broken; but I quite forgive you. I have not much
+pain. All the bad news does not hurt as it ought. I have a weight
+here," pointing to her breast, "and my head is very light, and
+something is singing in my ears; but I know quite well what has
+happened: little Maurice is gone! Little, little darling Maurice is
+quite and really lost! and Lovedy's purse is stolen away! And--I
+think perhaps the dream is right--and there is--no--_Jesus
+Christ_. Oh, Joe, Joe--the--singing--in my head!"
+
+Here the tightly folded hands relaxed their strained tension, the
+blue eyes closed, and Cecile lay unconscious at Joe's feet.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+"A CONSIDERING-CAP."
+
+
+When Cecile sank down in a swoon in the hut, Toby, who had been
+lying on the ground apparently half asleep, had risen impatiently.
+Things were by no means to this dog's liking; in fact, things had
+come to such a pass that he could no longer bear them quietly.
+Maurice gone; Joe quite wild and distracted; and Cecile lying like
+one dead. Toby had an instinct quite through his honest heart that
+the time had come for _him_ to act and with a wild howl he
+rushed into the forest.
+
+Neither of the two he left behind noticed him; both were too
+absorbed in the world into which they had entered--Cecile was lying
+in the borderland between life and death, and Joe's poor feet had
+strayed to the edge of that darker country where dwells despair.
+
+The dog said to himself: "Neither of them can act, and immediate
+steps must be taken. Maurice must be found; I, Toby, must not rest
+until I bring Maurice back."
+
+He ran into the forest, he sniffed the air, for a few moments he
+rushed hither and thither; then, blaming himself for not putting his
+wits into requisition, he sat down on his haunches. There, in the
+forest of the Landes, Toby might have been seen putting on his
+considering-cap. Let no one laugh at him. This dog had been given
+brains by his Maker; he would use these brains now for the benefit of
+the creatures he loved. Maurice had strayed into the forest; he must
+bring him back. Now, this particular part of the forest was very
+large, covering indeed thousands of leagues. There was no saying how
+far the helpless child might have strayed, not being blessed with
+that peculiar sense which would have guided Toby back to the hut from
+any distance, He might have wandered now many leagues away; still
+Toby, the dog who had watched over his infancy, would not return
+until he found him again. The dog thought now in his own solemn
+fashion, What did Maurice like best? Ah! wise Toby knew well: the
+pretty things, the soft things, the good things of life were little
+Maurice's desires; plenty of nice food, plenty of warmth and
+sunshine, plenty of pretty things to see, to touch. In the forest
+what could Maurice get? Food? No, not without money; and Toby knew
+that Cecile always kept those little magic coins, which meant so much
+to them all, in her own safe keeping. No, Maurice could not have food
+in the forest, but he could have flowers. Toby therefore would seek
+for the straying child where the flowers grew. He found whole beds of
+hyacinths, of anemones, of blue-bells, of violets; wherever these
+grew, there Toby poked his sagacious nose; there he endeavored to
+take up the lost child's scent. At last he was successful; he found a
+clew. There was a trampled-down bed of violets; there were withered
+violets scattered about. How like Maurice to fill his hands with
+these treasures, and then throw them away. Clever Toby, sniffing the
+ground, presently caught the scent he desired. This scent carried him
+to the main road, to the place where the caravan had stood. He saw
+the mark of wheels, the trampling of horses' feet, but here also the
+scent he was following ended; the caravan itself had absolutely
+disappeared. Toby reflected for a minute, threw his head in the air,
+uttered a cry and then once more rushed back into the forest. Here
+for a long, long time he searched in vain for any fresh scent; here,
+too, he met with one or two adventures. A man with a gun chased him,
+and Toby's days might have been numbered, had he not hidden cleverly
+under some brushwood until the enemy had disappeared. Then he himself
+yielded to a canine weakness, and chased a rabbit, but only to the
+entrance of its burrow; but it was here also that he again took up
+the clew, for there were just by this rabbit's burrow one or two
+violets lying dead where no other violets were growing. Toby sniffed
+at them, gave a glad and joyful cry, and then was off like a shot in
+quite the contrary direction from where he had come. On and on, the
+scent sometimes growing very faint, sometimes almost dying out, the
+dog ran; on and on, he himself getting very tired at last, his tongue
+hanging out, feeling as if he must almost drop in his longing for
+water; on and still on, until he found his reward; for at last, under
+a wide-spreading oak tree, fast asleep, with a tear-begrimed and pale
+face, lay the little wanderer.
+
+Was ever dog so wild with delight as Toby? He danced about, he
+capered, he ran, he barked, he licked the little pale face, and when
+little Maurice awoke, his delight was nearly as great as the dog's;
+perhaps it was greater, for Maurice, with his arms tight round Toby,
+cried long and heartily for joy.
+
+"Toby, take me home; take me back to Cecile and Joe," said the boy.
+
+Toby looked intelligent and complying, but, alas! there were limits
+even to his devotion. Back he and his little charge could not go
+until he had stretched his weary limbs on that soft grass, until he
+too had indulged in a short slumber. So the child and the dog both
+lay side by side, and both slept.
+
+God's creatures both, and surely his unprotected creatures they
+seemed, lying there all alone in so vast a solitude. But it was
+only seeming, it was not so in reality, for round them guardian
+angels spread protecting wings, and the great Father encircled
+them both with his love. Two sparrows are not sold for a farthing
+without his loving knowledge, and Maurice and Toby were therefore
+as safe as possible.
+
+In the cool of the evening the two awoke, very hungry, it is true,
+but still refreshed, and then the dog led the lost child home.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+ALPHONSE.
+
+
+But in vain Maurice lay down by Cecile's side and pressed his little
+cool lips to hers. He had returned to her again, but Cecile did not
+know him. Maurice was quite safe once more; the danger for him was
+over; but to Cecile he was still a lost child. She was groping for
+him, she would never find him again. The child her dying father had
+given into her tender care; the purse her stepmother had set such
+store by, both were gone, and gone forever. She had been faithless to
+her trust, and, cruelest of all, her heavenly Guide had not proved
+true.
+
+Poor Cecile! she pushed away the soft baby face of her little
+brother. She cried, and wrung her hands, and turned from side to
+side. Maurice was frightened, and turned tearfully to Joe. What had
+come to Cecile? How hot she looked! How red were her cheeks! How
+strange her words and manner!
+
+Joe replied to the frightened little boy that Cecile was very ill,
+and that it was his fault; in truth, Joe was right. The blow dealt
+suddenly, and without any previous warning, was too much for Cecile.
+Coming upon a frame already weakened by fatigue and anxiety she
+succumbed at once, and long before Toby had brought Maurice home,
+poor little Cecile was in a burning fever.
+
+All day long had Joe watched by her side, listening to her piteous
+wailings, to her bitter and reproachful cries. I think in that long
+and dreadful day poor Joe reaped the wages of his weakness and sin of
+the night before. Alone, with neither Toby nor Maurice, he dared not
+leave the sick child. He did not know what to do for her; be could
+only kneel by her side in a kind of dull pain and despair. Again and
+again he asked for her forgiveness. He could not guess that his
+passionate words were falling on quite unconscious ears.
+
+In his long misery Joe had really forgotten little Maurice, but when
+he saw him enter the hut with Toby he felt a kind of relief. Ignorant
+truly of illness, an instinct told him that Cecile was very ill. Sick
+people saw doctors, and doctors had made them well. He could
+therefore now run off to the village, try to find a doctor, get him
+to come to Cecile, and then, when he saw that there was a chance of
+her wants being attended to rush off himself to do what he had made
+up his mind to accomplish some time earlier in the day. This was to
+find Anton, and getting back the little piece of paper, then give
+himself up to his old life of hardship and slavery.
+
+"You set there, Maurice," he said, now addressing the bewildered
+little boy; "Cecile is ill; and you must not leave her. You set quite
+close to her, and when she asks for it, let her have a drink of
+water; and, Toby, you take care on them both."
+
+"But, Joe, I'm _starving_ hungry," said Maurice; "and why must
+I stay alone when Cecile is so queer, and not a bit glad to see me,
+though she is calling for me all the time? Why are you going away? I
+think 'tis very nasty of you, Joe."
+
+"I must go, Maurice; I must find a doctor for Cecile; the reason
+Cecile goes on like that is because she is so dreadful ill. Ef I
+don't get a doctor, why she'll die like my little comrade died when
+his leg wor broke. You set nigh her, Maurice, and yere's a bit of
+bread."
+
+Then Joe, going up to the sick child and kneeling down by her, took
+one of the burning hands in his.
+
+"Missie, Missie, dear," he said, "I know as yer desperate ill, and
+you can't understand me. But still I'd like fur to say as I give hup
+my old mother, Missie. I wor starving fur my mother, and I thought as
+I'd see her soon, soon. But it worn't fur to be. I'm goin' back to my
+master and the old life, and you shall have the purse o' gold. I did
+bitter, bitter wrong; but I'll do right now. So good-by, my darling
+darlin' little Missie Cecile."
+
+As the poor boy spoke he stooped down and kissed the burning hands,
+and looked longingly at the strangely flushed and altered face; then
+he went out into the forest. Any action was a relief to his oppressed
+and overstrained heart, and he knew he had not a moment to lose in
+trying to find a doctor for Cecile.
+
+He went straight to the village and inquired if such a person dwelt
+there.
+
+"Yes," an old peasant woman told him; "certainly they had a doctor,
+but he was out just now; he was with Mme. Chillon up at a farm a
+mile away. There was no use in going to the doctor's house, but if
+the boy would follow him there, to the said farm, he might catch him
+before he went farther away, for there were to be festivities that
+night, and their good doctor was always in requisition as the best
+dancer in the place."
+
+So Joe followed the doctor to the farm a mile away, and was so
+fortunate as to find him just before he was about to ride off to the
+fete mentioned by the old peasant.
+
+Joe, owing to his long residence in England, could only speak broken
+French, but his agitation, his great earnestness, what little French
+he could muster, were so far eloquent as to induce the young doctor,
+instead of postponing his visit to the hut in the forest until the
+morning, to decide to give up his dance and go with the boy instead.
+
+Joe's intention was to direct the doctor to the hut, and then,
+without returning thither himself, set off at once on his search for
+Anton. This, however, the medical man would not permit. He was not
+acquainted with the forest; he would not go there at so late an hour
+on any consideration without a guide, so Joe had to change his mind
+and go with him.
+
+They walked along rapidly, the doctor wondering if there was any
+chance of his still being in time for his promised dance, the boy too
+unhappy, too plunged in gloom, to be able to utter a word. It was
+nearly dark in the forest shade when at last they reached the little
+tumbledown hut.
+
+But what was the matter? The place Joe had left so still, so utterly
+without any sound except that made by one weak and wandering voice,
+seemed suddenly alive. When the doctor and the boy entered, voices,
+more than one, were speaking eagerly. There was life, color, and
+movement in the deserted little place.
+
+Bending over the sick child, and tenderly placing a cool
+handkerchief dipped in cold water on her brow, was a young woman of
+noble height and proportions. Her face was sunshiny and beautiful,
+and even in the gathering darkness Joe could see that her head was
+crowned with a great wealth of golden hair. This young woman, having
+laid the handkerchief on Cecile's forehead, raised her then tenderly
+in her arms. As she did so, she turned to address some words in
+rather broken French to a tall, dark-eyed old woman who stood at the
+foot of the bed of pine needles.
+
+Both women turned when the boy and the man came in, and at sight of
+the doctor, whom they evidently knew well, they uttered many
+exclamations of pleasure.
+
+The young doctor went over at once to his little patient, but Joe,
+suddenly putting his hand to his heart, stood still in the door of
+the hut.
+
+_Who_ was that old woman who held Maurice in her arms--that old
+woman with the upright figure, French from the crown of her head to
+the sole of her feet? Of what did she remind the boy as she stood
+holding the tired little child in her kind and motherly clasp?
+
+Ah! he knew, he knew. Almost at the second glance his senses seemed
+cleared, his memory became vivid, almost too vivid to be borne. He
+saw those same arms, that same kind, dear, and motherly face, only
+the arms held another child, and the eyes looked into other eyes, and
+that child was her own child, and they were in the pretty cottage in
+the Pyrenees, and brother Jean was coming in from his day's work of
+tying up the vines.
+
+Yes, Joe knew that he was looking at his mother; once again he had
+seen her. Though he must not stay with her, though he must give her
+up, though he must go back to the old dreadful life, still for this
+one blessed glimpse he would all the rest of his life acknowledge
+that God was good.
+
+For a moment he stood still, almost swaying from side to side in the
+wonderful gladness that came over him, then with a low cry the poor
+boy rushed forward; he flung his arms round the old woman's neck; he
+strained her to his heart.
+
+"Ah, my mother!" he sobbed, speaking in this sudden excitement in
+the dear Bearnais of his childhood, "I am Alphonse. Do you not know
+your little lost son Alphonse?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+LAND OF BEULAH.
+
+
+The whole scene had changed. She had closed her eyes in a deserted
+hut lying on a bed of pine needles. She had closed her eyes to the
+consciousness of Maurice gone, of everything lost and over in her
+life. It seemed but a moment, but the working of an ugly dream,
+and she opened them again. Where was she? The hut was gone, the
+pine-needle bed had vanished; instead she found herself in a pretty
+room, with dimity curtains hanging before latticed windows; she felt
+soft white sheets under her, and knew that she was lying in a little
+bed, in the prettiest child's cot, with dimity curtains fastened back
+from it also. The room in its freshness and whiteness and purity looked
+something like an English room, and from the open windows came in a
+soft, sweet scent of roses.
+
+Had Cecile then gone back to England, and, if so, what English home
+had received her?
+
+She was too tired, too peaceful, to think much just then. She closed
+her languid eyes, only knowing that she was comfortable and happy,
+and feeling that she did not care much about anything if only she
+might rest on forever in that delicious white bed.
+
+Then, for she was still very weak, she found herself with her
+thoughts wandering. She was back in England, she was in London. Kind
+Mrs. Moseley had taken her in; kind Mrs. Moseley was taking great
+care of Maurice and of her. Then she fancied herself in a vast place
+of worship where everybody sang, and she heard the words of a very
+loud and joyful refrain:
+
+  "The angels stand on the hallelujah strand,
+  And sing their welcome home."
+
+Had she then got home? Was this happy, restful place not even
+England? Was all the dull and weary wandering over, and had she got
+home--to the best home--the home where Jesus dwelt? She really
+thought it must be so, and this would account for the softness of
+this little bed, and the delicious purity of the beautiful room. Yes,
+she heard the singing very distinctly; "welcome home" came over and
+over again to her ears. She opened her eyes. Yes, surely this was
+heaven, and those were the angels singing. How soft and full and rich
+their voices sounded.
+
+She tried to raise her head off her pillow, but this she found she
+could not manage. Where she lay, however, she could see all over the
+small room. She was alone, with just the faint, sweet breath of roses
+fanning her cheeks, and that delicious music in the distance. Yes,
+she certainly must be in the home of Jesus, and soon He would come to
+see her, and she would talk with Him face to face.
+
+She remembered in a dim kind of way that she had gone to sleep in
+great trouble and perplexity. But there was no trouble lying on her
+heart now. She was in the home where no one had any trouble; and when
+she told Jesus all her story, he would make everything right. Just
+then a voice, singing the same sweet refrain, came along the passage.
+As it got near, the music ceased, the door softly opened, and a young
+woman with golden hair and the brightest of bright faces came softly
+in. Seeing Cecile with her eyes open, she went gladly up to the bed,
+and, bending over her, said in a full but gentle voice:
+
+"Ah! dear English little one, how glad I am that you are better!"
+
+"Yes, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, in her feeble tone. Then she
+added, looking up wistfully: "Please, how soon may I see Jesus?"
+
+At these words the pleased expression vanished from the young
+woman's face. She looked at Cecile in pity and alarm, and saying
+softly to herself, "Ah! she isn't better, then," turned away with a
+sigh; but Cecile lifted a feeble hand to detain her.
+
+"Please, I'm much better. I'm quite well," she said. "This is
+heaven, isn't it?"
+
+"No," answered the young woman. She was less alarmed now, and she
+turned and gazed hard at the child. "No," she said, "we thought you
+were going to heaven. But I do believe you really are better. No, my
+dear little girl! this is very different from heaven. This is only a
+French farm; a farm in the Landes--pretty enough! but still very
+different from heaven. You have been very ill, and have been lying on
+that little bed for the last fortnight, and we did fear that you'd
+die. We brought you here, and, thanks to my good mother-in-law and
+our doctor, we have, I do trust, brought you through, and now you
+must sleep and not talk any more."
+
+"But please, ma'am, if this is a French farm, how do you speak
+English?"
+
+"I am English by birth, child; though 'tis a long time now since I
+have seen my native land. Not that I feel very English, for my good
+Jean's country is my country, and I only spoke English to you because
+you don't know French. Now, little girl, lie very still. I shall be
+back in a minute."
+
+The young woman did come back in a minute, holding, of all people in
+the world, Maurice by the hand.
+
+Maurice then, who Cecile thought was quite lost, was back again, and
+Cecile looked into his dear brown eyes, and got a kiss from his sweet
+baby lips. A grave, grave kiss from lips that trembled, and a grave
+look from eyes full of tears; for to little Maurice his Cecile was
+sadly changed; but the young woman with the bright hair would not
+allow him to linger now. She held a cup of some delicious cooling
+drink to the sick child's lips, and then sat down by her side until
+she slept, and this was the beginning of a gentle but slow recovery.
+
+Pretty young Mme. Malet sat most of the day in Cecile's room, and
+Maurice came in and out, and now and then an old woman, with an
+upright figure and French face, came and stood by the bedside and
+spoke softly and lovingly, but in a tone Cecile could not understand,
+and a lovely little boy was brought in once a day by his proud young
+mother, and suffered to give Cecile one kiss before he was taken away
+again. And the kindest care and the most nourishing food were always
+at hand for the poor little pilgrim, who lay herself in a very land
+of Beulah of rest and thankfulness.
+
+Her memory was still very faint; her lost purse did not trouble her;
+even Lovedy became but a distant possibility; all was rest and peace,
+and that dreadful day when she thought her heavenly Guide had
+forsaken her had vanished forever from her gentle heart.
+
+One afternoon, however, when Mme. Malet sat by the open window
+quietly knitting a long stocking, a disturbing thought came to
+Cecile; not very disturbing, but still enough for her to start and
+ask anxiously:
+
+"Why doesn't Joe ever come to see me?"
+
+At these words a shade came over the bright face of the young wife
+and mother; she hesitated for a moment, then said, a trifle uneasily:
+
+"I wouldn't trouble about Joe just now, deary."
+
+"Oh! but I must," answered Cecile. "How is it that I never missed
+him before? I do love Joe. Oh! don't tell me that anything bad has
+happened to my dear, dear Joe."
+
+"I don't know that anything bad has happened to him, dear. I trust
+not. I will tell you all I know. The night my mother-in-law and I
+found you in that little hut I saw a tall dark boy. He had gone to
+fetch the doctor for you, and he stood in the gloom, for we had very
+little light just then. All on a sudden he gave a cry, and ran to my
+mother-in-law, and threw his arms round her neck, and said strange
+words to her. But before she could answer him, or say one single
+sentence in reply, he just ran out of the hut and disappeared. Then
+we brought you and Maurice and Toby home, and we have not heard one
+word of Joe since, dear."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+REVELATIONS.
+
+
+After this little conversation with Mme. Malet Cecile's sojourn in
+the land of Beulah seemed to come to an end. Not that she was really
+unhappy, but the peace which gave a kind of unreal sweetness to this
+time of convalescence had departed; her memory, hitherto so weak,
+came back fully and vividly, she remembered all that dreadful
+conversation with Joe, she knew again and felt it through and through
+her sensitive heart that _her_ Joe had proved unfaithful. He had
+stolen the piece of paper with the precious address, he had given
+over the purse of gold into the hands of the enemy. Not lightly had
+he done this thing, not lightly had he told her of his wrongdoing.
+Could she ever forget the agony in his eyes or the horror in his poor
+voice as he told her of the life from which he had thus freed
+himself. No, all through her illness she had seen that troubled face
+of Joe's, and now even she could scarcely bear to dwell upon it. Joe
+had been sorely tempted, and he had fallen. Poor Joe! No, she could
+not, she would not blame Joe, but all the same her own life seemed
+ended; God had been very good. The dear Guide Jesus, when He restored
+to her little Maurice, had assuredly not forsaken her; but still, all
+the same, _she_ had been faithless. Her dying stepmother had put
+into her hands a sacred trust, and she never now could fulfill that
+trust.
+
+"Though I tried to do my best--I did try to do my very, very best,"
+sighed the poor little girl, wiping the tears from her eyes.
+
+Cecile was now sufficiently recovered to leave her pretty and bowery
+bedroom and come down to the general living room. This room, half
+kitchen, half parlor, again in an undefined way reminded her of the
+old English farmhouse where she and Maurice had been both happy and
+unhappy not so long ago. Here Cecile saw for the first time young
+Mme. Malet's husband. He was a big and handsome fellow, very dark--as
+dark as Joe; he had a certain look of Joe which rather puzzled Cecile
+and caused her look at him a great deal. Watching him, she also
+noticed something else. That handsome young matron, Mme. Malet, that
+much idolized wife and mother, was not quite happy. She had high
+spirits; she laughed a full, rich laugh often through the day; she
+ran briskly about; she sang at her work; but for all that, when for a
+few moments she was quiet, a shadow would steal over her bright face.
+When no one appeared to notice, sighs would fall from her cherry
+lips. As she sat by the open lattice window, always busy, making or
+mending, she would begin an English song, then stop, perhaps to
+change it for a gay French one, perhaps to wipe away a hasty tear.
+Once when she and Cecile were alone, and the little girl began
+talking innocently of the country where she had been brought up, she
+interrupted her almost petulantly:
+
+"Stop," she said, "tell me nothing about England. I was born there,
+but I don't love it; France is my country now."
+
+Then seeing her husband in the distance, she ran out to meet him,
+and presently came in leaning on his arm, but her blue eyes were wet
+with sudden tears.
+
+These things puzzled Cecile. Why should Mme. Malet dislike England?
+Why was Mme. Malet sad?
+
+But the young matron was not the only one who had a sad face in this
+pretty French farm just now; the elderly woman, the tall and upright
+old Frenchwoman, Cecile saw one day crying bitterly by the fire. This
+old woman had from the first been most kind to Cecile, and had petted
+Maurice, often rocking him to sleep in her arms, but as she did not
+know even one word of English, she left the real care of the children
+to her daughter-in-law Suzanne. Consequently Cecile had seen very
+little of her while she stayed in her own room, but when she came
+downstairs she noticed her sad old face, and when she heard her
+bitter sobs, the loving heart of the child became so full she could
+scarcely bear her own feelings. She ran up to the old Frenchwoman and
+threw her arms round her neck, and said "Don't cry; ah, don't cry!"
+and the Frenchwoman answered "_La pauvre petite_!" to her, and
+though neither of them understood one word that the other said, yet
+they mingled their tears together, and in some way the sore heart of
+the elder was comforted.
+
+That evening, that very same evening, Cecile, sitting in the porch by
+the young Mme. Malet's side, ventured to ask her why her mother-in-law
+looked so sorry.
+
+"My poor mother-in-law," answered Suzanne readily, "she has known
+great trouble, Cecile. My Jean was not her only child. My mother-in-law
+is mourning for another child."
+
+"Another child," replied Cecile; "had old Mme. Malet another child?
+and did he die?"
+
+"No, he didn't die. He was lost long, long ago. One day he ran away,
+it was when they lived, my good Jean and his mother, in the Pyrenees,
+and little Alphonse ran out, and they fear someone stole him, for
+they never got tidings of him since. He was a bright little lad, and,
+being her youngest, he was quite a Benjamin to my poor mother-in-law.
+
+"Oh! she did fret for him bitterly hard, and they--she and my good
+Jean--spent all the money they had, looking for him. But this
+happened years ago and I think my mother-in-law was beginning to take
+comfort in my little son, our bonnie young Jean, when, Cecile, that
+boy you call Joe upset her again. He could not have been her son, for
+if he was, he'd never have run away. Besides, he did not resemble the
+little lad with black curls she used to talk to me about. But he ran
+up to her, doubtless mistaking her for someone else, and called her
+his mother, and said he was her lost Alphonse.
+
+"Then before she could open her lips to reply to him, he darted out
+of the little hut, and was lost in the darkness, and not a trace of
+him have we come across since, and I tell my poor mother-in-law that
+he isn't her child. But she doesn't believe me, Cecile, and 'tis
+about him she is so sad all day."
+
+"But he is her child, he is indeed her child," answered Cecile, who
+had listened breathless to this tale. "Oh! I know why he ran away.
+Oh, yes, Mme. Malet is indeed his mother. I always thought his mother
+lived in the Pyrenees. I never looked to find her here. Oh! my poor,
+poor dear Joe! Oh, Mme. Suzanne, you don't know how my poor Joe did
+hunger for his mother!"
+
+"But, Cecile, Cecile," began young Mme. Malet excitedly. So far she
+had got when the words, eager and important as they were, were stayed
+on her lips.
+
+There was a commotion outside. A woman was heard to shriek, and then
+to fall heavily; a lad was heard to speak comforting words, choked
+with great sobs; and then, strangest of all, above this tumult came a
+very quiet English voice, demanding water--water to pour on the lips
+and face of a fainting woman.
+
+Suzanne rushed round to the side from whence these sounds came.
+Cecile, being still weak, tried to follow, but felt her legs
+tottering. She was too late to go, but not too late to see; for the
+next instant big strong Jean Malet appeared, carrying in his fainting
+old mother, and immediately behind him and his wife came not only
+Cecile's own lost Joe, but that English lady, Miss Smith.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+THE STORY AND ITS LISTENERS.
+
+
+It was neither at the fainting mother nor at Joe that Cecile now
+looked. With eyes opening wide with astonishment and hope, she ran
+forward, caught Miss Smith's two hands in her own, and exclaimed in a
+voice rendered unsteady with agitation:
+
+"Oh! have you got my purse? Is Lovedy's Russia-leather purse quite,
+quite safe?"
+
+Busy as young Mme. Malet was at that moment, at the word "Lovedy"
+she started and turned round. But Cecile was too absorbed in Miss
+Smith's answer to notice anyone else.
+
+"Is Lovedy's purse quite, quite safe?" asked her trembling lips.
+
+"The purse is safe," answered Miss Smith; and then Joe, who had as
+yet not even glanced at Cecile, also raised his head and added:
+
+"Yes, Cecile, the Russia-leather purse is safe."
+
+"Then I must thank Jesus now at once," said Cecile.
+
+With her weak and tottering steps she managed to leave the room to
+gain her own little chamber, where, if ever a full heart offered
+itself up to the God of Mercy, this child's did that night.
+
+It was a long time before Cecile reappeared, and when she did so
+order was restored to the Malet's parlor. Old Mme. Malet was seated
+in her own easy-chair by the fire; one trembling hand rested on Joe's
+neck; Joe knelt at her feet, and the eyes of this long-divided mother
+and son seemed literally to drink in love and blessing the one from
+the other.
+
+All the anxiety, all the sorrow seemed to have left the fine old
+face of the Frenchwoman. She sat almost motionless, in that calm
+which only comes of utter and absolute content.
+
+Miss Smith was sitting by the round table in the center of the room,
+partaking of a cup of English tea. Big brother Jean was bustling in
+and out, now and then laying a great and loving hand on his old
+mother's head, now and then looking at the lost Alphonse with a gaze
+of almost incredulous wonder.
+
+Young Mme. Malet had retired to put her child to bed, but when
+Cecile entered she too came back to the room.
+
+Had anyone had time at such a moment to particularly notice this
+young woman, they would have seen that her face now alone of all that
+group retained its pain. Such happiness beamed on every other face
+that the little cloud on hers must have been observed, though she
+tried hard to hide it.
+
+As she came into the room now, her husband came forward and put his
+arm round her waist.
+
+"You are just in time, Suzanne," he said; the English lady is going
+to tell the story of the purse, and you shall translate it to the
+mother and me."
+
+"Yes, Cecile," said Miss Smith, taking the little girl's hand and
+seating her by her side, "if I had been the shrewd old English body I
+am, you would never have seen your purse again; but here it is at
+last, and I am not sorry to part with it."
+
+Here Miss Smith laid the Russia-leather purse on the table by
+Cecile's side.
+
+At sight of this old-fashioned and worn purse, young Mme. Malet
+started so violently that her husband said: "What ails thee, dear
+heart?"
+
+With a strong effort she controlled herself, and with her hands
+locked tightly together, with a tension that surely meant pain.
+
+"The day before yesterday," continued Miss Smith, "I was sitting
+in my little parlor, in the very house where you found me out, Cecile;
+I was sitting there and, strange to say, thinking of you, and of
+the purse of gold you intrusted to me, a perfect stranger, when
+there came a ring to my hall door. In a moment in came Molly and
+said that a man wanted to see me on very particular business. She
+said the man spoke English. That was the reason I consented to see
+him, my dear; for I must say that, present company excepted, I do
+hate foreigners. However, I said I would see the man, and Molly showed
+him in, a seedy-looking fellow he was, with a great cut over his eye.
+I knew at a glance he was not English-born and I wished I had refused
+to see him; he had, however, a plausible tongue, and was quite quiet
+and *well-behaved.
+
+"How astonished I was when he asked for your purse of gold, Cecile,
+and showed me the little bit of paper, in my own writing, promising
+to resign the purse at any time to bearer.
+
+"I was puzzled, I can tell you. I thoroughly distrusted the man, but
+I scarcely knew how to get out of my own promise. He had his tale,
+too, all ready enough. You had found the girl you were looking for:
+she was in great poverty, and very ill; you were also ill, and could
+not come to fetch the purse; you therefore had sent him, and he must
+go back to the south of France without delay to you. He said he had
+been kept on the road by an accident which had caused that cut over
+his eye.
+
+"I don't know that I should have given him the purse,--I don't
+believe I should,--but, at any rate, before I had made up my mind to
+any line of action, again Molly put in an appearance, saying that a
+ragged boy seemed in great distress outside, and wanted to see me
+immediately; 'and he too can speak English,' she continued with a
+smile.
+
+"I saw the man start and look uneasy when the ragged boy was
+mentioned, and I instantly resolved to see him, and in the man's
+presence.
+
+"'Show him in,' I said to my little servant.
+
+"The next instant in came your poor Joe, Cecile. Oh! how wild and
+pitiful he looked.
+
+"'You have not given him the purse,' he said, flying to my side,
+'you have not given up the purse? Oh! not yet, not yet! Anton,' he
+added, 'I have followed you all the way; I could not catch you up
+before. Anton, I have changed my mind, I want you to give me the bit
+of paper, and I will go back to my old life. My heart is broken. I
+have seen my mother, and I will give her up. Anton, I must have the
+bit of paper for Cecile. Cecile is dying for want of it. I will go
+back to my old master and the dreadful life. I am quite ready. I am
+quite ready at last'
+
+"There was no doubt as to the truth of this boy's tale, no doubt as
+to the reality of his agitation. Even had I been inclined to doubt
+it, one look at the discomfited and savage face of the man would have
+convinced me.
+
+"'Tis a lie,' he managed to get out. 'Madame, that young rogue never
+spoke a word of truth in his life. He is a runaway and a thief. Mine
+is the true tale. Give me the purse, and let me take it to the little
+girl.'
+
+"'Whether this boy is a rogue or not,' I said, 'I shall listen to
+his tale as well as yours.'
+
+"Then I managed to quiet the poor boy, and when he was a little
+calmer I got him to tell, even in the presence of his enemy, his most
+bitter and painful history.
+
+"When Joe had finished speaking, I turned to the villain who was
+trying if possible to scare the poor lad's reason away.
+
+"'The threat you hold over this boy is worthless' I said. 'You have
+no power to deliver him up to his old master. I believe it can be
+very clearly proved that he was stolen, and in that case the man who
+stole him is liable to heavy punishment. So much I know. You cannot
+touch the lad, and you shall not with my leave. Now as to the rest of
+the tale, there is an easy way of finding out which of you is
+speaking the truth. I shall adopt that easy plan. I shall give the
+purse to neither of you, but take it myself to the little girl who
+intrusted it to me. I can go to her by train to-morrow morning. I had
+meant to give myself a holiday, and this trip will just suit me to
+perfection. If the boy likes to accompany me to his mother, I will
+pay his fare third-class. Should the old woman turn out not to be his
+mother and his story prove false, I shall have nothing more to say to
+him. As to you, Anton, if that is your name, I don't think I need
+have any further words with you. If you like to go back to the little
+girl, you can find your own way back to her. I shall certainly give
+to neither of you the purse.
+
+"My dear," continued Miss Smith, "after this, and seeing that he was
+completely foiled, and that his little game was hopeless, that bad
+man, Anton, took it upon him to abuse me a good deal, and he might,
+it is just possible, he _might_ have proceeded to worse, had not
+this same Joe taken him quietly by the shoulders and put him not only
+out of the room, but out of the door. Joe seemed suddenly to have
+lost all fear of him, and as he is quite double Anton's size, the
+feat was easy enough. I think that is all, my dear. I have done, I
+feel, a good deed in restoring a son to a mother. Joe's story is
+quite true. And now, my dear, perhaps you will take care of that
+purse yourself in future."
+
+"And oh, Cecile! now--now at last can you quite, quite forgive me?"
+said Joe. He came forward, and knelt at her feet.
+
+"Poor Joe! Dear, dear Joe!" answered Cecile, "I always forgave you.
+I always loved you."
+
+"Then perhaps the Lord Christ can forgive me too?"
+
+"Oh, yes!"
+
+"That's as queer a story as I ever heard," here interrupted Jean
+Malet. "But I can't go to bed, or rest, without hearing more. How did
+a little maiden like her yonder come by a purse full of gold?"
+
+"I can tell that part," said Joe suddenly. "I can tell that in
+French, so that my mother and my brother can understand. There is no
+harm in telling it now, Cecile, for everything seems so wonderful, we
+must find Lovedy soon."
+
+"But is it not late--is it not late to hear the story to-night?"
+said Suzanne Malet in a faint voice.
+
+"No, no, my love! What has come to thee, my dear one?" said her
+husband tenderly. "Most times thou wouldst be eaten up with
+curiosity. No, no; no bed for me to-night until I get at the meaning
+of that purse."
+
+Thus encouraged, Joe did tell Cecile's story; he told it well, and
+with pathos--all about that step-mother and her lost child; all about
+her solemn dying charge; and then of how he met the children, and
+their adventures and escapes; and of how in vain they looked for the
+English girl with the golden hair and eyes of blue, but still of how
+their faith never failed them; and of how they hoped to see Lovedy in
+some village in the Pyrenees. All this and more did Joe tell, until
+his old mother wept over the touching story, and good brother Jean
+wiped the tears from his own eyes, and everyone seemed moved except
+Suzanne, who sat with cheeks now flushed--now pale, but motionless
+and rigid almost as if she did not hear. Afterward she said her boy
+wanted her, and left the room.
+
+"Suzanne is not well" remarked her husband.
+
+"The sad, sad tale is too much for her, dear impulsive child,"
+remarked the old mother.
+
+But honest Jean Malet shook his head, and owned to himself that for
+the first time he quite failed to understand his wife.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+THE WORTH OF THE JOURNEY.
+
+
+That same night, just when Cecile had laid her tired head on her
+pillow, there came a soft tap to her door, and young Mme. Malet,
+holding a lamp in her hand, came in.
+
+"Ah, Madame," said Cecile, "I am so glad to see you. Has it not been
+wonderful, wonderful, what has happened to day? Has not Jesus the
+Guide been more than good? Yes. I do feel now that He will hear my
+prayer to the very end; I do feel that I shall very soon find Lovedy."
+
+"Cecile" said Mme. Malet, kneeling down by the child's bed, and
+holding the lamp so that its light fell full on her own fair face,
+"what kind was this Lovedy Joy?"
+
+"What kind?" exclaimed Cecile. "Ah, dear Mme. Suzanne, how well I
+know her face! I can see it as her mother told me about it-blue eyes,
+golden hair, teeth white and like little pearls, rosy, cherry lips. A
+beautiful English girl! No-I never could mistake Lovedy."
+
+"Cecile," continued Mme. Malet, "you say you would know this Lovedy
+when you saw her. See! Look well at me--the light is shining on my
+face. What kind of face have I got, Cecile?"
+
+"Fair," answered Cecile--"very fair and very beautiful. Your eyes,
+they are blue as the sky; and your lips, how red they are, and how
+they can smile! And your teeth are very white; and then your hair, it
+is like gold when the sun makes it all dazzling. And--and----"
+
+"And I am English-an English girl," continued Madame.
+
+"An English girl!" repeated Cecile, "you--are--like _her_--then!"
+
+"Cecile, I am her--_I am Lovedy Joy_!"
+
+"You! you!" repeated Cecile. "You Lovedy! But no, no; you are
+Suzanne--you are Mme. Malet."
+
+"Nevertheless I was--I am Lovedy Joy. I am that wicked girl who
+broke her mother's heart; I am that wicked girl who left her. Cecile,
+I am she whom you seek; you have no further search to make--poor,
+brave, dear little sister--I am she."
+
+Then Lovedy put her arms round Cecile, and they mingled their tears
+together. The woman wept from a strong sense of remorse and pain, but
+the child's tears were all delight.
+
+"And you are the Susie about whom Mammie Moseley used to fret? Oh,
+it seems _too_ good, too wonderful!" said Cecile at last.
+
+"Yes, Cecile, I left Mammie Moseley too; I did everything that was
+heartless and bad. Oh, but I have been unhappy. Surrounded by mercies
+as I have been, there has been such a weight, so heavy, so dreadful,
+ever on my heart."
+
+Cecile did not reply to this. She was looking hard at the Lovedy she
+had come so many miles to seek--for whom she had encountered so many
+dangers. It seemed hard to realize that her search was accomplished,
+her goal won, her prize at her feet.
+
+"Yes, Lovedy, your mother was right, you are very beautiful," she
+said slowly.
+
+"Oh, Cecile! tell me about my mother," said Lovedy then. "All these
+years I have never dared speak of my mother. But that has not
+prevented my starving for her, something as poor Joe must have
+starved for his. Tell me all you can about my mother---more than
+Alphonse told downstairs tonight."
+
+So Cecile told the old story. Over and over again she dwelt upon
+that deathbed scene, upon that poor mother's piteous longing for her
+child, and Lovedy listened and wept as if her heart would break.
+
+At last this tale, so sad, so bitter for the woman who was now a
+mother herself, came to an end, and then Lovedy, wiping her eyes,
+spoke:
+
+"Cecile, I must tell you a little about myself. You know the day my
+mother married your father, I ran away. I had loved my mother most
+passionately; but I was jealous. I was exacting. I was proud. I could
+not bear that my mother should put anyone in my place. I ran away. I
+went to my Aunt Fanny. She was a vain and silly woman. She praised me
+for running away. She said I had spirit. She took me to Paris.
+
+"For the first week I got on pretty well. The new life helped to
+divert my thoughts, and I tried to believe I could do well without my
+mother. But then the knowledge that I had done wrong, joined to a
+desperate mother-hunger, I can call it by no other word, took
+possession of me. I got to hate my aunt, who led a gay life. At last
+I could bear it no longer. I ran away.
+
+"I had just enough money in my pocket to take me to London; I had
+not one penny more. But I felt easy enough; I thought, I will go to
+our old home, and make it up with mother, and then it will be all
+right. So I spent my last, my very last shilling in a cab fare, and I
+gave the driver the old address.
+
+"As I got near the house, I began to wish I had not come. I was such
+an odd mixture; all made up of love and that terrible pride. However,
+my pride was to get a shock I little expected.
+
+"Strangers were in the old rooms; strangers who knew nothing
+whatever about my mother. I found that I had so set my heart against
+this marriage, that I had not even cared to inquire the name of the
+man my mother had married; so I had no clew to give anyone, no one
+could help me. I was only a child then, and I wandered away without
+one farthing, absolutely alone in the great world of London.
+
+"It drove me nearly wild to remember that my mother was really in
+the very same London, and I could not find her, and when I had got as
+far as a great bridge---I knew it was a bridge, for I saw the water
+running under it---I could bear my feelings no longer, and I just
+cried out like any little baby for my Mammie.
+
+"It was then, Cecile, that Mrs. Moseley found me. Oh! how good she
+was to me! She took me home and she gave me love, and my poor starved
+heart was a little satisfied.
+
+"Perhaps she and her husband could have helped me to find my mother.
+But again that demon pride got over me. I would not tell them my
+tale. I would acknowledge to no one that my mother had put another in
+my place; so all the time that I was really starving for one kiss
+from my own mother, I made believe that I did not care.
+
+"I used to go out every day and look for her as well as I could by
+myself, but of course I never got the slightest clew to where she
+lived; and I doubt then, that even if I had known, so contrary was I,
+that I would have gone to her.
+
+"Well, one day, who should come up to me, quite unexpectedly, but
+Aunt Fanny again. Oh! she was a bad, cruel woman, and she had a
+strange power over me. She talked very gently, and not a bit crossly,
+and she soon came around a poor, weak young thing like me; she
+praised my pretty face, and she roused my vanity and my pride, and at
+last she so worked on me, that she got me to do a mean and shameful
+thing--I was to go back to Paris with her, without ever even bidding
+the Moseleys good-by.
+
+"Well, Cecile, I did go---I hate myself when I think of it, but I
+did go back to Paris that very night with Aunt Fanny. I soon found
+out what she was up to, she wanted to make money by me. She took me
+to a stage-manager, and he said he would prepare me for the stage--I
+had a voice, as well as a face and figure, he said. And he prophesied
+that I should be a great success. Then I began the most dreadful
+life. I heard horrible things, bad things.
+
+"Perhaps the thought of all the triumphs that were before me might
+have reconciled me to my fate, but I had always in my heart the
+knowledge that I had done wrong: however, Aunt Fanny ruled me with a
+tight hand, and I had no chance of running away. I was so unhappy
+that I wrote to the Moseleys begging them to forgive and help me, but
+I think now Aunt Fanny must have stopped the letters, for I never got
+any answer.
+
+"Well, Cecile, she died rather suddenly, and the manager said I was
+his property, and I must come and live in his house.
+
+"I could not stand that. I just made up my mind; I ran away again.
+It was night, and I wandered alone in the Paris streets. I had two
+francs in my pocket. God only knows what my fate would have been, but
+_He_ took care of me. As I was walking down a long boulevard I
+heard a woman say aloud and very bitterly:
+
+"'God above help me; shall I ever see my child again?'
+
+"She spoke in French, but I understood French very well then. Her
+words arrested me; I turned to look at her.
+
+"'Oh, my dear! you are too young to be out alone at night like
+this," she said.
+
+"Oh! but she had the kindest heart. Cecile, that woman was Mme.
+Malet; she had come up to Paris to look for her lost Alphonse; she
+took me home with her to the South; and a year after, I married my
+dear, my good Jean. Cecile, I have the best husband, I have the
+sweetest child; but I have never been quite happy--often I have been
+miserable; I could not tell about my mother, even to my Jean. He
+often asked me, but I always said:
+
+"'I hate England; ask me nothing about England if you love me.'"
+
+"But you will tell him to-night; you will tell him all to-night?"
+asked Cecile.
+
+"Yes, dear little one, I am going to him; there shall never be a
+secret between us again; and now God reward, God bless thee, dear
+little sister."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+THE END CROWNS ALL.
+
+
+Summer! summer, not in the lovely country, but in the scorching
+East End. Such heated air! such scorching pavements! Oh! how the
+poor were suffering! How pale the little children looked, as too
+tired, and perhaps too weak to play, they crept about the baking
+streets. Benevolent people did all they could for these poor babies.
+Hard-working East End clergymen got subscriptions on foot, and planned
+days in the country, and, where it was possible, sent some away for
+longer periods. But try as they would, the lives of the children had
+to be spent with their parents in this region, which truly seems to
+know the two extremes, both the winter's cold and the summer's heat.
+It was the first week in August, and the Moseleys' little room, still
+as neat as possible, felt very hot and close. It was in vain to open
+their dormer windows. The air outside seemed hotter than that within.
+The pair were having some bread and butter and cold tea, but both
+looked flushed and tired. They had, in truth, just returned from a
+long pleasure excursion under their good clergyman, Mr. Danvers, into
+the country. Mrs. Moseley had entire charge of about twenty children,
+her husband of as many more; so no wonder they looked fagged. But no
+amount of either heat or fatigue could take the loving sparkle out of
+Mammie Moseley's eyes, and she was now expatiating on the delights of
+the little ones in the grass and flowers.
+
+"There was one dear little toddle, John," she said; "she seemed
+fairly to lose her head with delight; to see that child rolling over
+in the grass and clutching at the daisies would do any heart good.
+Eh! but they all did have a blessed day. The sin and shame of it is
+to bring them back to their stifling homes to-night."
+
+"I tell you what, wife," said John Moseley, "the sight of the
+country fairly made a kitten of yerself. I haven't seen yer so young
+and so sprightly since we lost our bit of a Charlie. And I ha' made
+up my mind, and this is wot I'll do: We has two or three pounds put
+by, and I'll spend enough of it to give thee a real holiday, old
+girl. You shall go into Kent for a fortnight. There!"
+
+"No, no, John, nothink of the kind; I'm as strong and hearty as
+possible. I feels the 'eat, no doubt; but Lor'! I ha' strength to
+bear it. No, John, my man, ef we can spare a couple o' pounds, let's
+give it to Mr. Danvers' fund for the poor little orphans and other
+children as he wants to send into the country for three weeks each."
+
+"But that'll do thee no good," expostulated John Moseley, in a
+discontented voice.
+
+"Oh! yes, but it will, John, dear; and ef you don't like to do
+it for me, you do it for Charlie. Whenever I exercises a bit of
+self-denial, I thinks: well, I'll do it for the dear dead lamb. I
+thinks o' him in the arms of Jesus, and nothink seems too hard to
+give up for the sake of the blessed One as takes such care of my darling."
+
+"I guess as that's why you're so good to 'strays,'" said John
+Moseley. "Eh! but, Moll, wot 'as come o' yer word, as you'd take no
+more notice o' them, since them two little orphans runned away last
+winter?"
+
+"There's no manner o' use in twitting at me, John. A stray child
+allers reminds me so desp'rate hard o' Charlie, and then I'm jest
+done for. 'Twill be so to the end. Hany stray 'ud do wot it liked wid
+Mammie Moseley. But eh! I do wonder wot has come to my poor little
+orphans, them and Susie! I lies awake at night often and often and
+thinks it all hover. How they all vanished from us seems past belief."
+
+"Well, there seems a power o' 'strays' coming hup the stairs now,"
+said John Moseley, "to judge by the noise as they makes. Sakes alive!
+wife, they're coming hup yere. Maybe 'tis Mr. Danvers and his good
+lady. They said they might call round. Jest set the table tidy."
+
+But before Mrs. Moseley could do anything of the kind, the rope
+which lifted the boards was pulled by a hand which knew its tricks
+well, and the next instant bounded into the room a shabby-looking dog
+with a knowing face. He sprang upon John Moseley with a bark of
+delight; licked Mammie Moseley's hands; then, seeing the cat in her
+accustomed corner, he ran and lay down by her side. The moment Toby
+saw the cat it occurred to him that a life of ease was returning
+to him, and he was not slow to avail himself of it. But there was
+no time to notice Toby, nor to think of Toby, for instantly he
+was followed by Maurice and Cecile and, immediately after them,
+a dark-eyed boy, and then a great big man, and last, but not least,
+a fair-haired and beautiful young woman.
+
+It was at this young woman Mammie Moseley stared even more intently
+than at Cecile. But the young woman, taking Cecile's hand, came over
+and knelt on the ground, and, raising eyes brimful of tears, said:
+
+"Mammie, mammie, I am Susie! and Cecile has brought me back to you!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Over the confusion that ensued--the perfect Babel of voices--the
+endless exclamation--the laughter and the tears--it might be best to
+draw a veil.
+
+Suffice it to say, that this story of a brave endeavor, of a long
+pilgrimage, of a constant purpose, is nearly ended. Lovedy and her
+party spent a few days in London, and then they went down into Kent
+and found good faithful Jane Parsons, now happily married to the very
+night-guard who had befriended Cecile and Maurice when they were sent
+flying from Aunt Lydia to London. Even Aunt Lydia, as her mother's
+sister, did repentant Lovedy find out; and, seeing her now reduced to
+absolute poverty, she helped her as best she could. Nothing could
+make Lydia Purcell really grateful; but even she was a little
+softened by Lovedy's beauty and bewitching ways. She even kissed
+Cecile when she bade her good-by, and Cecile, in consequence, could
+think of her without fear in her distant home.
+
+Yes, Cecile's ultimate destination was France. In that pretty
+farmhouse on the borders of the Landes, she and Maurice grew up as
+happy and blessed as children could be. No longer orphans--for had
+they not a mother in old Mme. Malet, a sister in Lovedy, while Joe
+must always remain as the dearest of dear brothers? Were you to ask
+Cecile, she would tell you she had just one dream still unfulfilled.
+She hopes some day to welcome Mammie Moseley to her happy home in
+France. The last thing that good woman said to the child, as she
+clung with arms tightly folded round her neck, was this:
+
+"The Guide Jesus was most wonderful kind to you, Cecile, my lamb! He
+took you safely a fearsome and perilous journey. You'll let Him guide
+you still all the rest of the way?"
+
+"All the rest of the way," answered Cecile in a low and solemn
+voice. "Oh, Mammie Moseley I could not live without Him."
+
+Just two things more ... Anton is dead. Miss Smith has ever remained
+a faithful friend to Cecile; and Cecile writes to her once a year.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Transcriber's Note: A word was illegible in our print copy. We have
+made an educated guess as to what the word should be and indicated its
+location in the text with an asterisk (*).]
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade
+
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