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+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
+
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