diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6899-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 180759 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6899-h/6899-h.htm | 13389 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6899.txt | 9720 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6899.zip | bin | 0 -> 177281 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/chplg10.txt | 9877 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/chplg10.zip | bin | 0 -> 176950 bytes |
9 files changed, 33002 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6899-h.zip b/6899-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e10890a --- /dev/null +++ b/6899-h.zip diff --git a/6899-h/6899-h.htm b/6899-h/6899-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53b80c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/6899-h/6899-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13389 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Children's Pilgrimage, by Mrs. L. T. Meade +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 5% } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 4em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Children's Pilgrimage + +Author: L. T. Meade + +Posting Date: March 20, 2014 [EBook #6899] +Release Date: November, 2004 +First Posted: February 9, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by +Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> +THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE +</h1> + +<p class="t3"> +BY +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +MRS. L. T. MEADE +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +FIRST PART. +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +"LOOKING FOR THE GUIDE." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="poem"> + "The night is dark, and I am far from home.<br /> + Lead Thou me on"<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0101"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +"THREE ON A DOORSTEP." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After a time the boy raised his eyes, looked at her and spoke: +</p> + +<p> +"Will it be soon, Cecile?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think so, Maurice; I think it must be soon now." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm so cold, Cecile, and it's getting so dark." +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind, darling, stepmother will soon wake now, and then you can +come indoors and sit by the fire." +</p> + +<p> +The boy, with a slight impatient sigh, laid his head once more on her +shoulder, and the grave trio sat on as before. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped before the children, looking at them with interest and pity. +</p> + +<p> +"How is our stepmother, Dr. Austin?" asked Cecile, raising her head and +speaking with alacrity. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Is my stepmother going to be ill very long, Dr. Austin?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, my dear; I don't expect her illness will last much longer." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, then, she'll be quite well to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Stepmother," she said, taking her hand in hers, "Dr. Austin says +you'll be quite well to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Won't you come to bed too, Cecile?" +</p> + +<p> +"Presently, darling; but first I have to see to stepmother. Our +stepmother is very ill, you know, Maurice." +</p> + +<p> +"Very ill, you know," repeated Maurice sleepily, and without +comprehending; then he shut his eyes, and Cecile went back into the +sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, Cecile," replied the sick woman. "I'm not going to stir from this +yere sofa to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but then—but then you won't be quite well to-morrow," said the +child, tears springing to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Who said I'd be quite well to-morrow?" asked Cecile's stepmother. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"I—I——" said Cecile, hesitating and coloring. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"'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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0102"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +A SOLEMN PROMISE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +But there was only one sentence in these words which Cecile took in. +</p> + +<p> +"When you're dying," she repeated, and every vestige of color forsook +her lips. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear, when you're dying. I'm dying, Cecile; that was what the +doctor meant when he said I'd be 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." +</p> + +<p> +"I won't cry," said Cecile; she made a great effort set her lips firm, +and looked hard at her stepmother. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"Who's my Aunt Lydia?" asked Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh!" said Cecile; her little face fell, and a bright color came into +her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>can't</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, stepmother." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Cecile, opening her blue eyes wide. +</p> + +<p> +"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 +<i>all</i> till you promise me this solemn and grave, as though it were yer +very last breath." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Who's Lovedy?" asked Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"I never knew as you had a daughter of yer werry own," said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"'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.' +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"The next morning I put on my neat new dress and bonnet, and went into +her room. +</p> + +<p> +"'Lovedy, will you come to church to see your mother married?' +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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.' +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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, <i>always—always</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, stepmother." +</p> + +<p> +"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.'" +</p> + +<p> +"I promise to find Lovedy again," repeated Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"Now kiss me, child." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile did so. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"I thought we must be very poor," said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile drew out an old, worn Russia-leather purse. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile pressed the spring and took out a little bundle of notes. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, stepmother, I'll take her that message—very faithful; very, very +faithful, stepmother." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"There'll be heaps and heaps of money here," said Cecile, looking at +the little pile of gold with almost awe. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, child, but there won't, not unless you're <i>very</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"My werry, werry best," said Cecile earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0103"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +"NEVER A MOMENT TO GET READY." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, poor stepmother," she kept saying to herself, "I will find +Lovedy—I will find Lovedy or die." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile," she said, "the day has broke, and this is the day the doctor +says as perhaps I'll die." +</p> + +<p> +"Shall I open the shutters wide?" asked Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Ain't you ready, stepmother?" asked the little girl. +</p> + +<p> +"No, child, how could I be ready? I never had no time. I never had a +moment to get ready, Cecile." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"No, stepmother, I see you never did have no time," repeated Cecile +gravely. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps it don't take so very long to get ready," answered the child, +in a perplexed voice. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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——" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, child, go on. Once?" +</p> + +<p> +"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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "'I am so glad that Jesus loves me;<br /> + Jesus loves even me.'<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"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?' +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh! <i>don't</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"'Jesus loves everybody?' I said. +</p> + +<p> +"'Yes. Don't the hymn say so? Jesus loves even me!'" +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh! but I suppose 'tis because you're very, <i>very</i> good, little +English girl,' I said. +</p> + +<p> +"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.' +</p> + +<p> +"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.'" +</p> + +<p> +While Cecile was telling her little tale, Mrs. D'Albert had closed her +eyes; now she opened them. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"I can only say, 'Our Father,'" answered Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, go on your knees and say it earnest; say it werry earnest, +Cecile." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile did so, and when her voice had ceased, Mrs. D'Albert opened her +eyes, clasped her hands together, and spoke: +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0104"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +TOBY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"There is no use in having children like <i>that</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>died</i>, so I 'ud die." +</p> + +<p> +She began to consider already with great anxiety how she could hide +this precious money. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of her thoughts Maurice awoke, and Toby shook himself and +came round and looked into her face. +</p> + +<p> +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—"<i>We</i> don't care for this nonsense, I only do it +to amuse the child." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile followed her without a word into the next room. +</p> + +<p> +The dying woman was sitting up on a sofa, supported by pillows, and her +breathing came quicker and louder than ever. +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile," she gasped, "Cecile, say that bit—bit of a hymn once again." +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I am so glad Jesus loves me,<br /> + Even me."<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +repeated the child instantly. +</p> + +<p> +"Even me," echoed the dying woman. +</p> + +<p> +Then she closed her eyes, but she felt about with her hand until it +clasped the little warm hand of the child. +</p> + +<p> +"Go back to your room now, Cecile," said Aunt Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +But the dying hand pressed the little hand, and Cecile answered gravely +and firmly: +</p> + +<p> +"Stepmother 'ud like me to stay, Aunt Lydia." +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Lydia did not speak again, and for half an hour there was silence. +Suddenly Cecile's stepmother opened her eyes bright and wide. +</p> + +<p> +"Lovedy," she said, "Lovedy; find Lovedy," and then she died. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0105"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE TIN BOX AND ITS TREASURE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> wise and sensible, so dependable, as +her father said, D'Albert went out to look for employment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In the country Cecile was only ten years old. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +With trembling hands she pushed it far back into the cupboard, covered +it with some books, and shut the door securely. +</p> + +<p> +Then she crept back to bed a light-hearted child. For the present her +secret was safe and she might be happy. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0106"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +MERCY BELL. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It would be wrong, however, to say that she had <i>no</i> love; she loved +one thing—a base thing—she loved money. Lydia Purcell was saving +money; in her heart she was a close miser. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And good wages, Lydia—good wages they must be," replied the old lady. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"That is fair—that is very fair," said Mrs. Bell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Still the children were unpleasant to her, and she wished that her +sister had not died so inopportunely. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mrs. Bell further aggravated her dislike; she was so old and +invalidish now that her memory sometimes failed. +</p> + +<p> +The morning after the children's arrival, she spoke to Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +"Lydia, that was Mercy's voice I heard just now in the passage." +</p> + +<p> +"Mercy is dead," answered Lydia, contracting her brows in pain. +</p> + +<p> +"But, Lydia, I <i>did</i> hear her voice." +</p> + +<p> +"She is dead, Mistress Bell. That was another child." +</p> + +<p> +"Another child! Let me see the other child." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But when Cecile had gone away, Mrs. Bell turned to Lydia and said in a +tone of satisfaction: +</p> + +<p> +"How much our dear Mercy has grown." +</p> + +<p> +After this nothing would ever get the idea out of the old lady's head +that Cecile was Mercy. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0107"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +A GUIDE TO THE PYRENEES. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon Mrs. Bell said abruptly: +</p> + +<p> +"Mercy, I thought—or was it a dream?—I thought you were safe away +with Jesus for the last few years." +</p> + +<p> +"No, Mistress Bell," answered Cecile in her slow and grave tones, "I've +only been in London these last few years." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Bell had never even heard of the Pyrenees. She shook her old +head and frowned. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile bent over her work, and old Mrs. Bell dozed off to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I am so glad Jesus loves even me."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>very</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"If the blessed and adorable Jesus be God, may He guide you, my +children." +</p> + +<p> +These were his last words, and Cecile, lying on her little bed +to-night, remembered them vividly. +</p> + +<p> +Who was this Jesus who was so loving, and who was so willing to guide +people? She must learn more about Him, for if <i>He</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile resolved to find out all she could about Jesus from old Mrs. +Bell. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Aunt Lydia called the +little girl aside, and gave her as usual a basket of broken provisions. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Get away, get away, do," and turned her back, pretending to busy +herself over some cold meat. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +"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: +</p> + +<p> +"We'll keep a little bit of <i>every</i>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. +</p> + +<p> +"May I sit with you, and may I do a little bit more of Mercy's sampler, +please, Mistress Bell?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +The old lady, who was propped up in the armchair in the sunshine, +received her in her usual half-puzzled half-pleased way. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Mistress Bell, when 'ull you be likely to see Jesus next, do you +think?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But how can He be a guide when He's dead?" questioned Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia was in one of her worst tempers, and old Mrs. Bell, rendered +cross for the moment, spoke unadvisedly: +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>that</i> +puzzling. You bid her mind her sampler, and not worry an old woman, +Lydia Purcell." +</p> + +<p> +Lydia's eyes gazed stormily at Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0108"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +"THE UNION." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Whenever Mrs. Bell died, Lydia knew she must look out for a fresh home, +and that day could surely now not be very distant. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But this very morning she had been made uneasy by a letter from Mr. +Preston, her own and Mrs. Bell's man of business. +</p> + +<p> +He knew she had invested this money. She had done so against his will. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When he called, which he did that same morning, he could but confirm +her fears. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, he would try and sell out for her. He would go to London for the +purpose that very day. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But those who did suffer, and suffer most from Lydia's bad temper, were +the children. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Neither Cecile nor Toby would have fretted about the cold and +discomfort for themselves, but both their hearts ached for Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia stared at the request, then she refused it. +</p> + +<p> +"That grate would not burn a fire even if you were to light it," she +said partly in excuse. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"If the money don't come, where'll you send us, Mrs. Purcell, please?" +asked Cecile, her face very pale. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! 'tis easy to know where, child—to the Union, of course." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile had never heard of the Union. +</p> + +<p> +"Is it far away? and is it a nice place?" she asked innocently. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia laughed and held up her hands. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And Toby! Will Toby come too?" asked Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0109"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +"THE ADVENT OF THE GUIDE." +</h3> + +<p> +Cecile crept upstairs again very, very slowly, and sat down by +Maurice's side. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"I hate Aunt Lydia Purcell," he said; "I hate her, Cecile." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh!" said Maurice excitedly, "don't you <i>hope</i> 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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Then what would become of our dog?" asked Maurice, opening his velvety +brown eyes very wide. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Cecile!" he gasped. "Oh! oh! oh!" and here he buried his head on +his sister's breast. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, Maurice? Maurice, speak to me," implored his sister. +"Maurice, are very ill? Do speak to me, darling?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. <i>Do</i> you know what she meant by a +yard of rope?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, Maurice; tell me," asked Cecile, her face growing white. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But, Maurice, how do you know? Maurice, how can you tell?" +</p> + +<p> +"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.' +</p> + +<p> +"And I said, 'But he's dead.' +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When he was better, and had been persuaded to get into bed, Cecile said: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Toby looked as much as to say: +</p> + +<p> +"Pooh, that's a trivial matter, don't let's think of it," and then he +licked her hands again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," answered Toby, by means of his expressive eyes, and wagging his +stumpy tail, "I wish He would." +</p> + +<p> +That night when Cecile and Maurice were asleep, and all the house was +still, a messenger of kingly aspect came to the old farm. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I think, before He left the room, Jesus stooped down and gave her a +kiss of peace. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0110"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +"TOPSY-TURVY." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The house was full of subdued bustle and decorous excitement; and all +the bustle and all the excitement were caused by Mrs. Bell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Maurice! don't," entreated Cecile, "you are only a little baby +boy, and you don't understand." +</p> + +<p> +"But I understood about the yard of rope," retorted Maurice slyly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile used to wonder where the old woman had gone, and if she had +found the real Mercy at last. +</p> + +<p> +One day, as Jane, the cook, was filling the children's little basket, +Cecile said to her: +</p> + +<p> +"Has old Mrs. Bell gone into the Celestial City?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, my dear, into heaven," replied the cook; "the blessed old lady +has gone into heaven, dear." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile sighed. "She always <i>spoke</i> about going to the Celestial City +and the New Jerusalem," she said. +</p> + +<p> +Now the dairymaid, who happened to be a Methodist, stood near. She now +came forward. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And hard I must save," said Lydia; "I have but beggary to face when +I'm turned out." +</p> + +<p> +"Some of your money will be secured," replied the lawyer. "I can +promise you at least three hundred." +</p> + +<p> +"What is three hundred to live on?" +</p> + +<p> +"You can save again. You are still a young woman." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"I am sorry for you," replied the lawyer. Then he added, "And the +children—the children can remain here as long as you stay." +</p> + +<p> +But at the mention of the children, the momentary expression of +softness, which had made Lydia's face almost pleasing, vanished. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Where are they to go?" asked Mr. Preston. +</p> + +<p> +"To the workhouse, of course. What is the workhouse for but to receive +such beggar brats?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Ask your sister to take care of it for you, and keep it, both of you, +my poor babes, for a rainy day." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0111"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<h3> +A MONTH TO PREPARE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He came now with both important and unpleasant tidings. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"There was no check in it, I warrant," said Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Lydia considered, resting her chin thoughtfully on her hand. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"I will take the necessary steps when the time comes. Leave the matter +to me." +</p> + +<p> +That evening Lydia called Cecile to her side. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"Where are we to go at the end of the month, Aunt Lydia Purcell?" +</p> + +<p> +"To the workhouse." +</p> + +<p> +"You said before it was to the Union." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, child, yes; 'tis all the same." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"But Cecile and me aren't going into no Union, wicked Aunt Lydia +Purcell!" he said. +</p> + +<p> +"Heity-teity!" said Lydia, laughing at his little red face and excited +manner. +</p> + +<p> +The laugh enraged Maurice, who had a very hot temper. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0112"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE CUPBOARD IN THE WALL. +</h3> + +<p> +But poor Cecile had greater anxieties than the fear of her journey +before her. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. D'Albert—when she gave her that Russia-leather purse—had said to +her solemnly, and with considerable fear: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"What's an inkin-dory?" asked Maurice, raising a curious little face to +Jane. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Lydia turned on her heel, and Maurice and Cecile went slowly out. +Very slow, indeed, were Cecile's footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +"How dull you are, Cecile!" said the little boy. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +She flew up the attic stairs, her heart beating, her head giddy. Oh! if +she might be in time! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Go away, Cecile," she said to the little girl, "I'm very busy, and I +can't have you here; run out at once." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't mind a noise, if I may lie down," answered Cecile thankfully. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Nasty, dirty little hole," remarked Jane. "I'll soon find what it +contains; not sixpence worth, I'll warrant." +</p> + +<p> +But here the rack of suspense on which poor Cecile was lying became +past endurance, the child's fortitude gave way. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting up in bed, she cried aloud in a high-pitched, almost strained +voice, her eyes glowing, her cheeks like peonies: +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! not the little cupboard in the wall. Oh! please—oh! please, not +the little cupboard in the wall." +</p> + +<p> +"What cupboard? I know of no cupboard," exclaimed Aunt Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +Jane held up her hands. +</p> + +<p> +"Preserve us, ma'am, the poor lamb must be wandering, and look at her +eyes and hands." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0113"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +ON THE ROAD TO THE CELESTIAL CITY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At first the child could remember nothing. +</p> + +<p> +"Where am I?" she gasped, catching hold of Jane's hand and trying to +raise herself. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm better now; I'm quite well now, Jane," she murmured in a thankful +voice. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +The kind-hearted girl hurried away, and Cecile was left alone in the +now quiet attic. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And who in the name of fortune is Lovedy, Cecile? You do tell the +queerest stories I ever listened to." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes! my deary, I'm very smart indeed at picking up a tale. You +tell me all about Lovedy, Cecile." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"I'll never find Lovedy now; I've broken my promise—I've broken my +promise," she said in conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>He</i> 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?" +</p> + +<p> +Now Jane was a Methodist. But she was more, she was also a Christian. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Is that praying? I did not know it was that." +</p> + +<p> +"That is praying, my poor little lamb; you tell it all straight away to +the loving Jesus." +</p> + +<p> +"But He isn't here." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes, darling! He'll be very nigh to you, I guess, don't you be +frightened." +</p> + +<p> +"Does Jesus the guide come in the dark?" +</p> + +<p> +"He'll be with you in the dark, Cecile. You tell Him everything, and +then have a good sleep." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0114"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIV. +</h3> + +<h3> +WHAT JANE PARSONS KNEW. +</h3> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Hush!" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Where is He?" asked Maurice; "may I light a candle and look for Him?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, you mustn't; He only comes to people in the dark, so Jane +says. You lie down and shut your eyes." +</p> + +<p> +"If you don't want your cake, may I eat it then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, you may eat it. And, Toby, come into my arms, dear dog." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Jane Parsons downstairs was not idle. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Jane had never known any other home but Warren's Grove, and long as +Lydia Purcell had been there, Jane was there as long. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Jane, however, hasty enough on most occasions, was too busy now with +her own thoughts either to heed or answer them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Ever since the finding of the purse, Lydia had been alone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"That's a very shocking occurrence, Jane," she began. +</p> + +<p> +"Eh?" said Jane. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"Heaven give me patience!" muttered Jane to herself. Aloud she said, +"And who, do you think, the money belongs to, ma'am?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"You mean to keep it then?" said Jane. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Is there much money in it?" asked Jane as quietly as before. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed. And when was that?" asked Lydia. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia was helping herself to another mutton-chop, and began to feel a +little uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +"When was Mrs. Bell last in the attics?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +"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—" +</p> + +<p> +"What?" asked Lydia Purcell. She had laid down her knife and fork now, +and her face had grown a trifle pale. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +Lydia covered her face with her hands; she was trembling. Even her +strong, hard-worked hands were white from the storm of feeling within. +</p> + +<p> +"You knew of this, you knew this of me all these years, and you never +told. You never told even <i>me</i> until to-night," said Lydia presently, +raising a haggard face. +</p> + +<p> +"I knew it, and I never told even you until to-night," repeated Jane. +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you tell me to-night?" +</p> + +<p> +"May I take away the supper, ma'am, or shall you want any more?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, no! take it away, take it away! You <i>don't</i> 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!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, ma'am, nobody ever suspected it was you, and 'tis many years ago +now. You don't fret. Good-night, ma'am!" +</p> + +<p> +Lydia gave a groan, and Jane, outside the door, shook her own hand at +herself. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Jane felt low-spirited for a minute or two, but by the time she +returned to the empty kitchen she began to cheer up. +</p> + +<p> +"I did it well. I think I'll get the purse back," she said to herself. +</p> + +<p> +She sat down, put out the light, and prepared to wait patiently. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0115"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XV. +</h3> + +<h3> +GOING ON PILGRIMAGE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Here it is, Cecile," she said, "here it is. I guess Jesus Christ heard +your bit of a prayer real wonderful quick, my lamb." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear, dear Jane, I do love you. Oh! <i>did</i> Aunt Lydia really give the +purse back?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"My own and Lovedy's purse," repeated Cecile. "Oh, Jane! it seems too +good of Jesus to give it back to me again." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile did as she was bid, and out fell the fifteen sovereigns and the +four Bank of England notes. +</p> + +<p> +"'Tis all there, Jane," she said, "even to the little bit of paper +under the lining." +</p> + +<p> +"What's that, child?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, there's some writing on it, but I can't read writing." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, but I can, let me read it, darling." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile handed the paper to her, and Jane read aloud the following words: +</p> + +<p> +"'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. +</p> + +<p> +"'Signed by me, Grace D'Albert, on this ninth day of September, 18—' +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Jane, you must keep it; it only gives directions; I know all +about them down deep in my heart." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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 +<i>she</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Jane, what a beautiful, beautiful plan! And will Maurice's +half-sovereign help us all that much?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"That's what Mr. Preston said when he gave it," echoed Cecile. And then +the kind-hearted servant hurried downstairs to complete her +arrangements. +</p> + +<p> +"Maurice," said Cecile, stooping down and waking her little brother. +"Get up, Maurice, darling; 'tis time for us to commence our journey." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Cecile!" said the little fellow, "in the very middle of the night, +and I'm so sleepy." +</p> + +<p> +"For Toby's sake, Maurice, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, darling, 'tis all along His doing." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! how easy He is making the first bit of our pilgrimage!" said +Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0116"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVI. +</h3> + +<h3> +"LYDIA'S RESOLVE." +</h3> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She was in an exultant frame of mind when she went down to supper. When +Jane appeared she was glad to talk to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia was so upset that the purse, with its gold and notes, became for +the time of no interest to her. +</p> + +<p> +There was but one remedy for her woes. She must sleep. She knew, alas! +that brandy would make her sleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Jane found it no difficult task to remove the purse from her nerveless +fingers. When she awoke in the morning, it was gone. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +With these last words, Jane walked out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When Jane brought her breakfast into the little parlor, she said a few +words: +</p> + +<p> +"I shall send no detective after those children; they and their purse +may slip out of my life, they were never anything to me." +</p> + +<p> +"May I have the bit of paper with the writing on it back?" asked Jane +in reply. +</p> + +<p> +Lydia handed it to her. Then she poured herself out a cup of coffee, +and drank it off. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +SECOND PART. +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +"FINDING THE GUIDE." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="poem"> + "As often the helpless wanderer,<br /> + Alone in a desert land,<br /> + Asks the guide his destined place of rest,<br /> + And leaves all else in his hand."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0201"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +"LOOKING FOR THE OLD COURT." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"Will they give us breakfast in 'snug quarters'?" asked Maurice, who +always took things literally. "I wonder, Cecile, if 'snug quarters' +will be nice?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +But Cecile only shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear, I'm feared as I must leave you, though I don't like to." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"They aren't at all snug quarters, Cecile," said Maurice, in a +complaining tone. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And has Toby got to be brave too?" asked Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0202"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +"A NIGHT'S LODGINGS." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a promise of snow in the air and in the dull sky, and the +children shivered and drew close to each other. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"No; but I am going to look out for a night's lodging at once," +answered Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"For you and that ere little un, and the dawg?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, we must all three be together whatever happens. Do you know of a +lodging, little girl?" +</p> + +<p> +"My name's Jessie—Jessie White. Yes, I knows where I goes myself. 'Tis +werry warm there. 'Tis a'most <i>too</i> warm sometimes." +</p> + +<p> +"And is it cheap?" asked Cecile. "For me, and Maurice, and Toby, we +have got to do things <i>very</i> cheap. We shall only be a day or two in +London, and we must do things <i>very</i>, very cheap while we stay." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm off now," she said to Cecile, coming up to her and wiping her +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; but where are we to meet you for the lodging?" asked the little +girl anxiously—"Maurice is <i>so</i> tired—and you promised to show us. +Where shall we get the lodging for the night?" +</p> + +<p> +The girl gave a loud rude laugh. +</p> + +<p> +"'Tis in Dean Street," she said. "Dean Street's just round the +corner—'tis number twenty. I'll turn up if I ha' money." +</p> + +<p> +"But you said we could not get in without you," said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I never," said the servant-maid at last; "<i>you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile raised her eyes, then she exclaimed joyfully: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"CHEAP LODGINGS FOR THE NIGHT FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the door of this room a woman stood, who demanded pennies of +everyone before they were allowed to enter the room. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"I ha' my own bed laid ready in this corner, and you are both welcome +to share it, my little dears." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! they may come with me. I has my corner put by too," said the +red-faced girl, who also came up. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was no chance whatever of Jesus coming to a place like this, and +Cecile's last hope of His helping her vanished. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile almost thought she must scream, when suddenly the pale woman, +who had appeared so sound asleep, said quietly: +</p> + +<p> +"Go back to yer bed at once, Peggie Jones. I know what you're up to." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"My dear, you have a little money about you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," answered the child. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0203"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +IN THE CORNER BEHIND THE ORGAN. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And may we come back again here to-night, ma'am?" asked Cecile eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hodge laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Maurice. "I don't like walking; I'd rather go back to our +old court." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Is it warm down South?" asked Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Maurice, of course, that was where our father lived and where our +own, own mother died; 'tis lovely, lovely down South." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I don't mind walking, Cecile; let's set of South at once." +</p> + +<p> +"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, <i>he</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"That's Him as you said was in the dark in our attic?" +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>do</i> +think, yes, I do think, after His doing that, that He has quite made up +His mind to take us to France." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the organ was a dark place. In this short winter's day it looked +like night. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, I will be with thee," sang the voice, "I will be with thee, +I will be with thee." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0204"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE WOMAN WITH THE KINDEST FACE. +</h3> + +<p> +Cecile went back to where she had left Maurice sitting on the church +hassock, and, taking his hand, said to him, "Come." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"A kind woman?" said Maurice. "The kindest woman I ever saw is coming +up the church steps this minute." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile looked in the direction in which Maurice pointed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"She's a <i>lovely</i> woman," pronounced Maurice. "I'm quite sure she has +got a night's lodging. I'll run and ask her." +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, she might not like it," whispered the more timid Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't Jesus like dogs then?" asked Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +"And please, ma'am," suddenly demanded Cecile, before the woman had +time to answer Maurice, "<i>is</i> that Jesus the Guide playing the +beautiful music up there?" +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>are</i> a +queer little pair." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Will I? Hark to the baby! Well, I never! And are you two little +orphans, dears?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And we couldn't go to the Union, though there <i>are</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes and Toby too," said Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I never did hear the like, never. John, I say, John, come here." +</p> + +<p> +The man addressed as John came forward with great strides. +</p> + +<p> +He was a tall man about double the height of his stout wife. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"What say <i>you</i>, Molly? Have you room for 'em, old girl?" +</p> + +<p> +"The house is small," said the woman, "but there <i>is</i> the little closet +back of our bedroom, and Susie's mattress lying vacant. I could make +'em up tidy in that little closet." +</p> + +<p> +The man laughed, and chucked his wife under the chin. +</p> + +<p> +"Where's the use o' asking me," he said, "when you knows as you <i>can't</i> +say no to no waif nor stray as hever walked?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0205"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +A HOUSE WITHOUT A DOOR. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Such a funny home was hers, but so clean when you got into it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was the queerest entrance into the oddest little home. But when +once you got there how cozy it all was! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"What's yer name, dear heart?" asked Mrs. Moseley to the rather +forlorn-looking little figure seated on the edge of a chair. +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile, please, ma'am." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," answered Maurice; "me and Cecile and Toby are very hungry. We +had bad food yesterday; but I like this dinner, it smells good." +</p> + +<p> +"It will eat good too, I hope. Now, Cecile, why don't you come?" +</p> + +<p> +Cecile's face had grown first red and then pale. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Now we'll say grace," said Mrs. Moseley. +</p> + +<p> +She folded her hands and looked up. +</p> + +<p> +"Lord Jesus, bless this food to me and to Thy little ones, and use us +all to Thy glory." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"You want to ask me some'ut, dear?" she said gently to the child. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0206"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +CECILE GIVES HER HEART. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Maurice!" said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I'll go too," said Maurice. "I'll not go south; I'll go to +heaven." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +The two children sat very gravely hand in hand. The music delighted +them, but the rest of the service was rather above their comprehension. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile, however, listened hard, taking in, in her slow, grave way, here +a thought and there an idea. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But a strange experience was to come to the impressionable Cecile later +in the day. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +All religious teaching was new to Cecile, and she gave her hand quite +willingly to her kind friend. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +<i>"Fire and Blood."</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"We'll have three thousand to-night, see if we don't," said a +thin-faced girl, bending over to Mrs. Moseley. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Another, nudging her, here said: +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know as Black Bess ha' bin converted too?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, praise the Lord!" said this girl, sinking back on her seat, being +here interrupted by a most violent fit of coughing. +</p> + +<p> +The building filled and filled, until there was scarcely room to stand. +A man passing Mrs. Moseley said: +</p> + +<p> +"'Tis a glorious gathering, all brought together by prayer and faith, +all by prayer and faith." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Moseley took Cecile on her lap. +</p> + +<p> +"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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Come, let us join our cheerful songs:<br /> + Hallelujah to the Lamb who died on Mount Calvary.<br /> + Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! Amen."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Line after line was sung exultantly, accompanied by a brass band. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately afterward a man fell on his knees and prayed most earnestly +for a blessing on the meeting. +</p> + +<p> +Then came another hymn: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I love thee in life, I love thee in death;<br /> + If ever I love thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "The angels stand on the Hallelujah strand,<br /> + And sing their welcome home."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Bless thy word, Lord." This he repeated three times. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"I want to tell you about <i>Jesus</i>. 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? <i>Your +sins</i>, your great, awful <i>black</i> 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 <i>must</i> 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.' +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"'Never mind,' says Jesus, 'Give me thy heart, I'll forgive thee, poor +sinner; I'll make that black heart white.' +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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.' +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh! go away,' says the man; 'do go away, my heart is too bad.' +</p> + +<p> +"I'll not go away without thy heart,' says Jesus; ''tis not too bad for +me.' +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>he</i> will beat his wife again. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! I give my heart, I give my heart." +</p> + +<p> +"Blessings on thee, sweet lamb," came from several rough but kindly +voices. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Moseley took her in her arms and carried her out. She saw wisely +that she could bear no more. +</p> + +<p> +As they were leaving the hall, again there came a great burst of +singing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I love Jesus, Hallelujah!<br /> + I love Jesus; yes, I do.<br /> + I love Jesus, He's my Saviour;<br /> + Jesus smiles and <i>loves me too</i>."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0207"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +"SUSIE." +</h3> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, darling: Only tell Mammie Moseley what it is." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! May I call you that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; for sure, love. Now tell me what's yer care, Cecile, honey." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Going south? You mean to Devonshire, I suppose, child?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Law, child! Why, you don't never mean as you're going to cross the +seas?" +</p> + +<p> +"Is that the way to France, Mammie Moseley? Oh! Do you <i>really</i> know +the way?" +</p> + +<p> +"There's no other way that I ever hear tell on, Cecile. Oh, my dear, +you must not do that!" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my darling, how can I help you if you won't <i>conwide</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! please, Mammie!" +</p> + +<p> +"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? +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh, Mammie, Mammie, Mammie!' +</p> + +<p> +"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?' +</p> + +<p> +"She turned at once and threw her arms round me, and clung to me, +nearly in convulsions with weeping. +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh! take me to my mother,' she sobbed. 'I want my mother.' +</p> + +<p> +"'Yes, deary, tell me where she lives,' I said. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>had</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Cecile, did you know her?" said Mrs. Moseley. "Yes, yes, that's +jest her. I never did see bluer eyes." +</p> + +<p> +"And was her name Lovedy—Lovedy Joy?" asked Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, child; she wouldn't tell her real name; she was only +jest Susie to us." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, ma'am! Dear Mrs. Moseley, ma'am, where's Susie now?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0208"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE TRIALS OF SECRECY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Lovedy is a very uncommon name." said Mr. Danvers. "You had no reason, +Mrs. Moseley, to suppose that was Susan's name?" +</p> + +<p> +"She never let it out to me as it wor, sir. Oh, ain't it a trial, as +folk <i>will</i> be so close and <i>contrary</i>." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Danvers smiled. +</p> + +<p> +"I will go and see this little Cecile," he said, "and I must try to win +her confidence." +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>that</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible not to respect the little creature's silence as much +as her confidence. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>what</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"I will see to the money part," said Mr. Danvers. +</p> + +<p> +"And please, sir," asked Cecile, as he rose to leave, "is Jography a +thing or a person?" +</p> + +<p> +"Geography!" said the clergyman, laughing. "You shall come to school +to-morrow morning, my little maid, and learn something of geography." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0209"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +"A LETTER." +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>His</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"'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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile felt herself growing pale, and a lump rising in her throat. But +Mrs. Moseley, seizing the letter, and turning it over, exclaimed +excitedly: +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, open it and see, wife," answered the practical husband. The wife +did so. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Cecile! Oh, look, look!" +</p> + +<p> +Maurice pointed with an eager finger to a woman who, neatly dressed +from head to foot in black, was walking in front of them. +</p> + +<p> +"'Tis—'tis Aunt Lydia Purcell—'tis wicked Aunt Lydia Purcell," said +Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! come home, Cecile, come home," said Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0210"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +STARTING ON THE GREAT JOURNEY. +</h3> + +<p> +Cecile and Maurice ran quickly upstairs, pulled the rope with a will, +and got into the Moseleys' attic. +</p> + +<p> +"We are safe now," said the little boy, who had not seen Lydia watching +them from the street corner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't take off your hat, Maurice, darling; we have got to go." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But, oh! Maurice, Maurice, I must go south, Will you let me go alone? +Can you live without me, Maurice, darling?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, Cecile, you shall not go. You shall stay here too. We need neither +of us go south. It's much, much nicer here." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile considered a moment. This opposition from Maurice puzzled her. +She had counted on many obstacles, but this came from an unlooked-for +quarter. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>so</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"True and faithful," answered Maurice, "true and faithful, Cecile. +Cecile, what did our stepmother give you to hide?" +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>shall die</i>." +</p> + +<p> +Here Cecile's fortitude gave way. Still seated on the floor, she +covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile, Cecile, we'll leave our night's lodging. We'll go away. Only +who's to tell Mammie Moseley and Mr. Moseley?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll write," said Cecile; "I can hold my pen pretty well now. I'll +write a little note." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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, +</p> + +<p> +"CECILE—MAURICE. +</p> + +<p> +"Toby has to come with us, please, and he is most obliged for all +kindness." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +THIRD PART. +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +THE GREAT JOURNEY. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="poem"> + "I know not the way I am going',<br /> + But well do I know my Guide."<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0301"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +ON THE SAND HILL. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>belle</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Maurice! we are safe in our own country," she said, in a tone of +ecstasy, to the little boy. +</p> + +<p> +Maurice, however,—cold, tired, still seasick from his passage across +the Channel,—saw nothing delightful in this fact. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm very hungry, Cecile," he said, "and I'm very cold. How soon shall +we find breakfast and a night's lodging?" +</p> + +<p> +"Maurice, dear, it is quite early in the day; we don't want to think of +a night's lodging for many hours yet." +</p> + +<p> +"But we passed through a town, a great big town," objected Maurice; +"why did you not look for a night's lodging there, Cecile?" +</p> + +<p> +"'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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The little trio walked off—Cecile, at least, feeling very +triumphant—and never paused, until obliged to do so, owing to +Maurice's weariness. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile, when they had finished their meal, paid a small French coin for +the food, and then the little pilgrims left the village. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 +<i>He</i> could speak French." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"We must find Lovedy first," said Cecile, "and then—and then—yes, I'd +like, too, to die and go—there." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"We have not got South yet, darling. Oh, Maurice," with a wan little +smile, "if even <i>jography</i> was a person, as I used to think before I +went to school." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0302"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +JOGRAPHY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He was a troublesome boy, decidedly unmanageable, and an irregular +scholar, sometimes, absenting himself for a whole week at a time. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +Cecile, opening her blue eyes wide, answered: "Jography, please, ma'am. +I'd rayther learn jography than anything else in all the world." +</p> + +<p> +"But why?" asked the deaconess, surprised at this answer. +</p> + +<p> +"'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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, little Jography," he exclaimed, "you ain't really French, be +you?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +The tall lad sighed. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>La Belle France</i>!" he exclaimed with sudden fervor. He caught +Cecile's little hand and wrung it, then he hurried away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Maurice, in his ecstasy at seeing a face he knew actually kissed the +tall boy, and Cecile's eyes over-flowed with happy tears. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And please, Jography," asked Cecile, "are you going to stay in France +now you have come?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>was</i> wishing—that Jesus the Guide was living +down on earth, and that He would take our hands and guide us." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor young uns!" said the boy, "Poor little mites! Suppose as I takes +yer hands, and guides you two little morsels?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! will you, Jography?—oh! will you, indeed? how I shall love you! +how I shall!" +</p> + +<p> +"And me too, and Toby too!" exclaimed Maurice. And the two children, in +their excitement, flung their arms round their new friend's neck. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I can speak French anyhow," said the boy. "But now listen. Don't +you two agree to nothink till you hears my story." +</p> + +<p> +"But 'tis sure to be a nice story, Jography," said Maurice. "I shall +like going south with you." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"But have you any money at all, Jography?" asked Cecile, puckering her +pretty brows anxiously; "and—and—are you a honest boy, Jography?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, ef you ain't a queer little lass! <i>I</i> honest! I ain't likely to +rob from <i>you</i>; no, tho' I ha'n't no money—but ha' you?" +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"I ain't a brute," said the boy. "Little un, I'd starve first!" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Jography, 'twas Jesus the Guide sent you," said Cecile, clasping his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +"And I don't want to go to heaven just now," said Maurice, taking hold +of the other hand. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0303"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR. +</h3> + +<p> +"And now," proceeded Joe, <i>alias</i> Alphonse, <i>alias</i> Jography, "the +first thing—now as it is settled as we three club together—the first +thing is to plan the campaign." +</p> + +<p> +"What's the campaign?" asked Maurice, gazing with great awe and +admiration at his new friend. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>may</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"And are there night's lodgings in Paris?" asked Maurice, "and food to +eat? and is it warm, not bitter, bitter cold like here?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Jography laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Only my stepmother did say the small villages, Jography. Oh! I don't +know what for to do." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Cecile, come on, for I'm most bitter cold," said Maurice. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Ef Toby could only dance I'd make a fortune 'ere," whispered Joe to +Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +While Joe, for his part, wondered could it be possible that this +unknown Lovedy could have bluer eyes than Cecile's own. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0304"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE WORD THAT SETTLED JOE BARNES. +</h3> + +<p> +From London to Paris is no distance at all. The most delicate invalid +can scarcely be fatigued by so slight a journey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This four little pilgrims, going bravely onward, experienced. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"No," answered Cecile, returning his glance in fullest confidence. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>one</i> 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 <i>starved</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"No, Joe Barnes, you couldn't do that," answered Cecile, the finest +pucker of surprise on her pretty brow. +</p> + +<p> +"You think as I couldn't, Missie dear, and why not? I'm much stronger +than you." +</p> + +<p> +"No, Joe, <i>you</i> 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 <i>you</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +Here Cecile returned her purse to its hiding place, and then sat quiet, +with her hands folded before her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Wot wor that as you said that Jesus the Guide sent me to you, Missie. +I don't know nothink about Jesus the Guide." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Joe! what an unhappy boy you must be! I was <i>so</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Joe; and you must love Jesus now, for you see He loves you." +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, missie; nobody never did love Joe since he left off his +mother." +</p> + +<p> +"But Jesus, the good Guide, does. Why, He died for you. You don't +suppose a man would die for you without loving you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody died fur me, Missie Cecile—that ere's nonsense, miss, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>cry</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"I'd like to hear it, Missie, darling—and I love you now." +</p> + +<p> +"And I love you, poor, poor Joe—and here is a kiss for you, Joe. And +now I must go to sleep." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0305"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +OUTSIDE CAEN. +</h3> + +<p> +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 +<i>Bearnais</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The cottage was small, close, and very uncomfortable, and the children +were glad to get on their way. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile's firmness, joined to her great childish ignorance, could be +dangerous, but Joe only made a feeble protest. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +If ever a dog said plainly, "Go back at once, and save our lives," Toby +did then. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Take hold of my coat-tails, Cecile," he said; "we must run, we may get +back in time." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0306"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +IN THE SNOW. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no, Toby," she said in a muffled and sad tone; "there's no use +now, dear Toby." +</p> + +<p> +"Foller him, foiler him; he has more sense than we jest now," said Joe, +rousing himself from his reverie. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Why mayn't we go to sleep?" asked Cecile; "not that I am sleepy at two +o'clock in the day." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +Joe nodded. "Yes, Missie, dear, that's about what I does mean," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"To die, and never wake again," repeated Cecile, "then I'd see the +Guide. Oh, Joe! I'd <i>see</i> Him, the lovely, lovely Jesus who I love so +very much." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Maurice did not quite go to sleep, but the cold was so intense that the +poor little fellow cried with pain. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It had, however, been a very terrible snowstorm, and the snow, quite +dazzling white, lay already more than a foot deep on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Cecile," said Joe, "I can see Caen again." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think we could walk back to Caen now, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile took her little brother in her arms, and Joe disappeared round +the corner of the old wall. +</p> + +<p> +"Stay with the children, Toby," he said to the dog, and Toby stayed. +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile," said Maurice, nestling up close to his sister, "'tisn't half +so cold now." +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in a tone of great content and comfort, but his sweet baby +voice sounded thin and weak. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes! Maurice, darling, it's much colder. I'm in dreadful pain from +the cold." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Maurice, I think we had better keep walking up and down." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, darling. I suppose they do." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I think so. Maurice, you must not go to sleep." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not going to sleep. Cecile, will you sing that pretty song about +glory? Mrs. Moseley used to sing it." +</p> + +<p> +"That one about '<i>thousands of children</i>?'" said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—singing, 'Glory, glory, glory.'" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Maurice was asleep, and Cecile was holding him in her arms. +</p> + +<p> +Joe was away? and Toby?—Cecile was not very sure where Toby was. +</p> + +<p> +She and her little brother were alone, half buried in the snow. What a +dreadful position! What a terrible danger! +</p> + +<p> +Cecile kept repeating to herself, "Maurice is asleep, Maurice will +never wake again. If I sleep I shall never wake again." +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +Then she remembered no more. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0307"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +TOBY AGAIN TO THE RESCUE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Hi, Toby lad! off! off!" he shouted; "back to the firm ground, good +dog." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0308"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +A FARM IN NORMANDY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Of course this husband and wife conversed in French, which is here +translated. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +M. Dupois rose at once and pushed aside the crimson curtain from one of +the windows. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But his broken words were enough; he had come to people who had the +kindest hearts in the world. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They were not long in discovering them, with the dog himself, now +nearly frozen, stretched across Cecile's body. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, look, mamma! Look! her eyes open, she sees! she lives! she moves! +Ah, mother! how pleased I am." +</p> + +<p> +The little French girl cried in her joy, and Cecile watched her +wonderingly, After a time she asked in a feeble, fluttering voice: +</p> + +<p> +"Please is this heaven? Have we two little children really got to +heaven?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"That will take nearly a week, will it not, Gustave?" asked Mme. Dupois. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0309"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +O MINE ENEMY! +</h3> + +<p> +Whatever good Cecile's purse of gold might be to her ultimately, at +present it was but a source of peril and danger. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Still so clever a person as Anton, <i>alias</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0310"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +WARNED OF GOD IN A DREAM. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Both she and her husband were glad to take the children in, and +promised to make them comfortable—which they did, after a fashion. +</p> + +<p> +"We can stay here one night. We shall be quite rested and able to go on +down south to-morrow, Joe," said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Maurice said, "Nasty rude man," and shook his hand at him. +</p> + +<p> +But Pericard, not understanding a single word of English, only laughed, +and placidly continued his amusement. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly a thought came to Cecile: +</p> + +<p> +"Pericard," she said, "Faubourg St. G——." +</p> + +<p> +Pericard nodded, and looked intelligent. +</p> + +<p> +"Oui," he answered, "Faubourg St. G——." +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Faubourg St. G——." +</p> + +<p> +Pericard nodded again. He understood her perfectly. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0311"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE FAUBOURG ST. G——. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Had he then a shallow heart? Who can tell? He was a genuine specimen of +the ordinary Paris gamin. +</p> + +<p> +Pericard now much enjoyed the idea of taking Cecile and Maurice out to +the rather distant suburb called the Faubourg St. G——. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He was to be her guide. He would lead her safely to this faubourg, and +then back again to his grandmother's house. +</p> + +<p> +Pericard, for all his rags, had something of a gentleman's heart. +</p> + +<p> +He enjoyed guiding this very fair and pretty little lady. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, Maurice and Toby came too. But Cecile was Pericard's +princess on this occasion. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Alas! he only possessed one centime, and that would buy no dainties +worth mentioning. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The old Jew salesman, who never <i>on principle</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Whistling and laughing, the French boy exclaimed: "Pas si bete!" and +then returned to the children. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile alone—too intent on her mission to be hungry—felt little +interest in the tempting stalls. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Bonjour, Pere Bison," said Pericard, who, feeling himself rich, made +his choice with care and deliberation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Pericard was now of no further use. He must follow where she led. She +walked on, her steps flagging—despondency growing at her heart. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>"Miss Smith."</i> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0312"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE WINSEY FROCK. +</h3> + +<p> +Her voice almost trembling with suppressed excitement, Cecile turned to +her little brother. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>so</i> +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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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, <i>very</i> safely until I +come for it, or send for it." +</p> + +<p> +"What is your name, little girl?" +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile D'Albert." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Cecile felt herself growing a trifle pale. +</p> + +<p> +"I never thought of that," she said. "I cannot look for Lovedy without +a little money. What shall I do, Miss Smith?" +</p> + +<p> +"Let me think," said Miss Smith. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Is the money English money, little girl?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," answered Cecile; "the captain on board the boat from England did +change some, but all the French money is gone now." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +Cecile did so—eleven sovereigns lay glittering and tempting on Miss +Smith's table. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In about twenty minutes Miss Smith reappeared. She looked excited, and +even cheerful. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +She forthwith provided herself with a sheet of paper and a pen and +wrote as follows: +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"So help me God. HANNAH SMITH." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Long after Cecile had left her, Miss Smith sat on by the table—that +purse untouched by her side. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Then she fell on her knees and began to pray, and as she prayed she +wept. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0313"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +A MIDNIGHT SEARCH. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He must search the children that night. How should he accomplish his +search? +</p> + +<p> +He thought. Bad ideas came to him. He went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Anton had to own to himself that whoever had the purse, Joe had it not. +</p> + +<p> +He went over to the next bed, and examined little Maurice. He even +turned Toby about. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>his</i> bedroom, felt that he could +secure a very strong hold over the lad. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Joe, still heavy from the drug, and too amazed to refuse, even if he +wished to do so, stumbled to his feet and obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0314"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIV. +</h3> + +<h3> +A PLAN. +</h3> + +<p> +Cecile, impelled by some instinct, had said: "I know Pericard is +faithful." +</p> + +<p> +Joe, now turning to the French boy, repeated these few words in his +best French: +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Maurice must not hear," said Joe; "it will only make things still +harder if little Maurice hears what I have got to say." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Toby, in obedience to Cecile's summons, sat down by his side, and then +the little girl returned to Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"No one can hear us now. What is wrong, Jography?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But how, Joe. How?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Joe, you shall guide us; for now I have got something to +say—such a wonderful, wonderful thing, Joe dear." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Joe! he bitterly rued that knowledge by and by, but now his +feelings were all thankfulness. +</p> + +<p> +"Then Anton can't get the purse: you ha'n't got it to give to him!" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0315"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XV. +</h3> + +<h3> +AN ESCAPE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>vin ordinaire</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-by, Pericard—good Pericard—faithful Pericard." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0316"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVI. +</h3> + +<h3> +CHILDREN'S ARCADIA. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0317"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVII. +</h3> + +<h3> +MAURICE TAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF AFFAIRS. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was, indeed, necessary to economize, for the francs sewn into the +winsey frock would come to an end by and by. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was one reason, however, which induced Cecile to stay for a few +days in the forest close to the village of Moulleau. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +After seeing the child, Cecile went back to her hut, sat down on the +pine needles, and began to think. +</p> + +<p> +Never yet had she obtained the faintest clew to her search. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This event, terrible and anxious, put all remembrance of the English +farm and English child far from her mind. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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? <i>He</i> 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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0318"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XVIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +AN OGRE IN THE WOOD. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He therefore sat down on the grass, and picked away at the violets +until he had filled both his hands. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For several hours tired little Maurice slept. When at last he opened +his eyes, a man was sitting by his side. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Anton!" +</p> + +<p> +Anton—for it was indeed he—looked into the innocent face with his own +guilty one, then nodded in the affirmative. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"'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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"The others are in a hut, a hut in the forest, eh?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"How far away did you say it wor, lad?" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +Anton laughed. +</p> + +<p> +"'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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0319"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIX. +</h3> + +<h3> +THREE PLANS. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down by the child. He did not care to wake him. While Maurice +slept he made his plans. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Anton," said poor Joe, when he could force any words from his +trembling lips. +</p> + +<p> +"Aye, Anton," echoed the man with a taunting laugh, "you seems mighty +pleased to see Anton, old chap. You looks rare and gratified, eh?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Anton laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"I know," answered Joe, "I know as a man like you can have no +mercy—never a bit." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"You have got little Maurice?" said Joe. "You have stole little Maurice +away from Cecile and me?" +</p> + +<p> +"I found little Maurice asleep in the wood. I have him safe. You can +have him back whenever you pleases." +</p> + +<p> +"I must have little Maurice. Take me to him at once," said Joe in a +desperate tone. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>determined</i> 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 <i>you</i> comes wid me, Joe. I sells you once more to yer hold +master, and he keeps yer <i>tight</i>, 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?" +</p> + +<p> +Joe said nothing; his head was buried in his hands. Anton, however, saw +that he was listening. +</p> + +<p> +"The last is the sensible plan," he said; and he laid his hand on the +lad's shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Joe started as though an adder had stung him. He threw off the defiling +hand, and moved some paces away. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>you</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"The bit o' paper 'ull do; the bit o' paper wid the address of the +lady." +</p> + +<p> +Joe groaned. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>can't</i> 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! <i>wot shall I do</i>?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +So saying Anton rose from the grass, and when Joe raised his face his +enemy was gone. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0320"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XX. +</h3> + +<h3> +FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing this Cecile reproved him. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Werry well, Missie," said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After a long pause, he said in a husky voice: +</p> + +<p> +"I'd like to hear that verse as Missie read to poor Joe last night. I'd +like to hear it once again." +</p> + +<p> +"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.'" +</p> + +<p> +"My poor old mother," said Joe suddenly. "My poor, poor old mother." +Here he covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The question now lay between the Russia-leather purse and himself. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>it would be +for life</i>. 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0321"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXI. +</h3> + +<h3> +HARD TIMES FOR LITTLE MAURICE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was late in the evening when Anton at last made his appearance, and +alone. Little Maurice sprang off his stool to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Anton, what a time you've been! And where's Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +"Joe ain't coming to-night, young 'un," said Anton roughly. +</p> + +<p> +He entered the caravan with a weary step, and, throwing himself on a +settle, demanded some supper in French of his companion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Cross, nasty man," replied Maurice passionately; "then I'll run away +by myself, I will. I can walk now." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He had not slept so very long when a hand touched him. The hand was +gentle, the touch firm but quiet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Run—run away," he said. These were the only words of English he could +master. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0322"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE ENGLISH FARM. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile heard her utter a French exclamation, then chide pretty sharply +the uproarious birds. Toby lying <i>perdu</i> behind the hedge, the fowl +were naturally chided for much ado about nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Just then the little boy, breaking from the restraining hand, ran +gleefully into a field of waving corn. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Come, Cecile, come back to the hut; I have some'ut to tell yer," he +said slowly and in hoarse tones. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0323"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +TELLING THE BAD NEWS. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"For I've a story to tell yer, little Missie," said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +Cecile obeyed him at once. A great terror was over her, but this terror +was partly assuaged by his first words. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Dear Joe," said the little girl, "yes, tell me about Paris and London." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"It don't make much real differ," he said, "only I thought as I'd like +fur yer to know as it wor a <i>werry</i> bitter temptation. +</p> + +<p> +"I remember the last night as I slept along o' my mother, Missie +Cecile, how she petted me, and fondled of me. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Here Joe paused, again covered his face, and groaned most bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Then may I kiss you before I know all? and I don't think I <i>could</i> +hate you, Jography." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"'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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +Joe, frightened more by a calm so unnatural than he would be by any +exclamation, threw himself on the ground at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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—<i>Jesus Christ</i>. Oh, Joe, Joe—the—singing—in my head!" +</p> + +<p> +Here the tightly folded hands relaxed their strained tension, the blue +eyes closed, and Cecile lay unconscious at Joe's feet. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0324"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXIV. +</h3> + +<h3> +"A CONSIDERING-CAP." +</h3> + +<p> +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 +<i>him</i> to act and with a wild howl he rushed into the forest. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Toby, take me home; take me back to Cecile and Joe," said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0325"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXV. +</h3> + +<h3> +ALPHONSE. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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; he 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But, Joe, I'm <i>starving</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Then Joe, going up to the sick child and kneeling down by her, took one +of the burning hands in his. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He went straight to the village and inquired if such a person dwelt +there. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Who</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0326"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXVI. +</h3> + +<h3> +LAND OF BEULAH. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Had Cecile then gone back to England, and, if so, what English home had +received her? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "The angels stand on the hallelujah strand,<br /> + And sing their welcome home."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! dear English little one, how glad I am that you are better!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I'm quite well," answered Cecile, in her feeble tone. Then she +added, looking up wistfully: "Please, how soon may I see Jesus?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Please, I'm much better. I'm quite well," she said. "This is heaven, +isn't it?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But please, ma'am, if this is a French farm, how do you speak English?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +The young woman did come back in a minute, holding, of all people in +the world, Maurice by the hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Why doesn't Joe ever come to see me?" +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"I wouldn't trouble about Joe just now, deary." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0327"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXVII. +</h3> + +<h3> +REVELATIONS. +</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> 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, <i>she</i> had been faithless. Her +dying stepmother had put into her hands a sacred trust, and she never +now could fulfill that trust. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Stop," she said, "tell me nothing about England. I was born there, but +I don't love it; France is my country now." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These things puzzled Cecile. Why should Mme. Malet dislike England? Why +was Mme. Malet sad? +</p> + +<p> +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 "<i>La pauvre petite</i>!" 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"Another child," replied Cecile; "had old Mme. Malet another child? and +did he die?" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0328"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXVIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE STORY AND ITS LISTENERS. +</h3> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! have you got my purse? Is Lovedy's Russia-leather purse quite, +quite safe?" +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Is Lovedy's purse quite, quite safe?" asked her trembling lips. +</p> + +<p> +"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: +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Cecile, the Russia-leather purse is safe." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I must thank Jesus now at once," said Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Young Mme. Malet had retired to put her child to bed, but when Cecile +entered she too came back to the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As she came into the room now, her husband came forward and put his arm +round her waist. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +Here Miss Smith laid the Russia-leather purse on the table by Cecile's +side. +</p> + +<p> +At sight of this old-fashioned and worn purse, young Mme. Malet started +so violently that her husband said: "What ails thee, dear heart?" +</p> + +<p> +With a strong effort she controlled herself, and with her hands locked +tightly together, with a tension that surely meant pain. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"'Show him in,' I said to my little servant. +</p> + +<p> +"The next instant in came your poor Joe, Cecile. Oh! how wild and +pitiful he looked. +</p> + +<p> +"'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.'" +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"'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.' +</p> + +<p> +"'Whether this boy is a rogue or not,' I said, 'I shall listen to his +tale as well as yours.' +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"When Joe had finished speaking, I turned to the villain who was trying +if possible to scare the poor lad's reason away. +</p> + +<p> +"'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. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>might</i> 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." +</p> + +<p> +"And oh, Cecile! now—now at last can you quite, quite forgive me?" +said Joe. He came forward, and knelt at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +"Poor Joe! Dear, dear Joe!" answered Cecile, "I always forgave you. I +always loved you." +</p> + +<p> +"Then perhaps the Lord Christ can forgive me too?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes!" +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But is it not late—is it not late to hear the story to-night?" said +Suzanne Malet in a faint voice. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Suzanne is not well," remarked her husband. +</p> + +<p> +"The sad, sad tale is too much for her, dear impulsive child," remarked +the old mother. +</p> + +<p> +But honest Jean Malet shook his head, and owned to himself that for the +first time he quite failed to understand his wife. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0329"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXIX. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE WORTH OF THE JOURNEY. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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——" +</p> + +<p> +"And I am English—an English girl," continued Madame. +</p> + +<p> +"An English girl!" repeated Cecile, "you—are—like <i>her</i>—then!" +</p> + +<p> +"Cecile, I am her—<i>I am Lovedy Joy</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +"You! you!" repeated Cecile. "You Lovedy! But no, no; you are +Suzanne—you are Mme. Malet." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"And you are the Susie about whom Mammie Moseley used to fret? Oh, it +seems <i>too</i> good, too wonderful!" said Cecile at last. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Lovedy, your mother was right, you are very beautiful," she said +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"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. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Cecile, she died rather suddenly, and the manager said I was his +property, and I must come and live in his house. +</p> + +<p> +"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 <i>He</i> +took care of me. As I was walking down a long boulevard I heard a woman +say aloud and very bitterly: +</p> + +<p> +"'God above help me; shall I ever see my child again?' +</p> + +<p> +"She spoke in French, but I understood French very well then. Her words +arrested me; I turned to look at her. +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh, my dear! you are too young to be out alone at night like this," +she said. +</p> + +<p> +"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: +</p> + +<p> +"'I hate England; ask me nothing about England if you love me.'" +</p> + +<p> +"But you will tell him to-night; you will tell him all to-night?" asked +Cecile. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0330"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XXX. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE END CROWNS ALL. +</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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!" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"But that'll do thee no good," expostulated John Moseley, in a +discontented voice. +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +"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." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"Mammie, mammie, I am Susie! and Cecile has brought me back to you!" +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + * * * * *<br /> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +"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?" +</p> + +<p> +"All the rest of the way," answered Cecile in a low and solemn voice. +"Oh, Mammie Moseley I could not live without Him." +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="transnote"> +[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 (*).] +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE *** + +***** This file should be named 6899-h.htm or 6899-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/8/9/6899/ + +Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by +Al Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/6899.txt b/6899.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1181873 --- /dev/null +++ b/6899.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9720 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Children's Pilgrimage + +Author: L. T. Meade + +Posting Date: March 20, 2014 [EBook #6899] +Release Date: November, 2004 +First Posted: February 9, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by +Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + + +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 be 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; he 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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE *** + +***** This file should be named 6899.txt or 6899.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/8/9/6899/ + +Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by +Al Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/6899.zip b/6899.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4668980 --- /dev/null +++ b/6899.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e8d9df --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #6899 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6899) diff --git a/old/chplg10.txt b/old/chplg10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7df43a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/chplg10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9877 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Children's Pilgrimage, by L. T. Meade +#3 in our series by L. T. Meade + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +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 + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S PILGRIMAGE *** + +This file should be named chplg10.txt or chplg10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, chplg11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, chplg10a.txt + +Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/chplg10.zip b/old/chplg10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3d0a3d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/chplg10.zip |