CHAPTER IV.

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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.