Here, indeed, early as it was in the day, the short time of light
seemed almost to have disappeared. The sky--what could be seen of it
between the tall houses of the narrow street--looked almost black, and
little flakes of snow began to fall noiselessly.

Here Joe, thinking of the Norman peasant, began to be a little alarmed.
He proposed, as they had got into Caen, that they should run no further
risk, but spend the night there.

But this proposition was met by tears of reproach by Cecile. "Oh, dear
Jography! and stepmother did say, never, never to stay in the big
towns--always to sleep in the little inns. Caen is much, much too big a
town. We must not break my word to stepmother--we must not stay here."

Cecile's firmness, joined to her great childish ignorance, could be
dangerous, but Joe only made a feeble protest.

"Do you see that old woman, and the little lass by her side making
lace?" he said. "That house don't look big; we might get a night's
lodging as cheap as in the villages."

But though the little Norman girl of seven nodded a friendly greeting
to pretty brown-eyed Maurice as he passed, and though the making of
lace on bobbins must be a delightful employment, Cecile felt there
could be no tidings of Lovedy for her there; and after partaking of a
little hot soup in the smallest cafe they could come across, the little
pilgrims found themselves outside Caen and in the desolate and wintry
country, when it was still early in the day.

Early it was, not being yet quite two o'clock; but it might have been
three or four hours later to judge by the light. The snow, it is true,
had for the present ceased to fall, but the blackness of the sky was so
great that the ground appeared light by comparison. A wind, which
sounded more like a wailing cry than any wind the children had ever
heard, seemed to fill the atmosphere.

It was not a noisy wind, and it came in gusts, dying away, and then
repeating itself. But for this wailing wind there was absolutely not a
sound, for every bird, every living creature, except the three children
and the dog, appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.
Maurice, not caring about the weather, indifferent to these signal
flags of danger, was cross, for he wanted to talk to the little
lacemaker, and to learn how to manage her bobbins.

Cecile was wondering how soon they should reach a very small village,
and find a night's shelter in a tiny inn. Joe, better appreciating the
true danger, was full of anxious forebodings and also self-reproach,
for allowing himself to be guided by a child so young and ignorant as
Cecile. Still it never occurred to him to turn back.

After all, it was given to Toby to suggest, though, alas! when too
late, the only sensible line of action. For some time, indeed ever
since they left Caen, the dog had walked on a little ahead of his
party, with his tail drooping, his whole attitude one of utter
despondency.

Once or twice he had looked back reproachfully at Cecile; once or twice
he had relieved his feelings with a short bark of utter discomfort. The
state of the atmosphere was hateful to Toby. The leaden sky, charged
with he knew not what, almost drove him mad. At last he could bear it
no longer. There was death for him and his, in that terrible, sighing
wind. He stood still, got on his hind legs, and, looking up at the
lowering sky, gave vent to several long and unearthly howls, then
darting at Cecile, he caught her dress between his teeth, and turned
her sharp round in the direction of Caen.

If ever a dog said plainly, "Go back at once, and save our lives," Toby
did then.

"Toby is right," said Joe in a tone of relief; "something awful is
going to fall from that sky, Cecile; we must go back to Caen at once."

"Yes, we must go back," said Cecile, for even to her rather slow mind
came the knowledge that a moment had arrived when a promise must yield
to a circumstance.

They had left Caen about a mile behind them. Turning back, it seemed
close and welcome, almost at their feet. Maurice, still thinking of his
little lacemaker, laughed with glee when Joe caught him in his arms.

"Take hold of my coat-tails, Cecile," he said; "we must run, we may get
back in time."

Alas! alas! Toby's warning had come too late. Suddenly the wind
ceased--there was a hush--an instant's stillness, so intense that the
children, as they alone moved forward, felt their feet weighted with
lead. Then from the black sky came a light that was almost dazzling. It
was not lightning, it was the letting out from its vast bosom of a
mighty torrent of snow. Thickly, thicker, thicker--faster, faster--in
great soft flakes it fell; and, behold! in an instant, all Caen was
blotted out. Trees vanished, landmarks disappeared, and the children
could see nothing before them or behind them but this white wall, which
seemed to press them in and hem them round.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE SNOW.

So sudden was the snowstorm when it came, so complete the blinding
sense of the loss of all external objects, that the children stood
stunned, not fearing, because they utterly failed to realize. Maurice,
it is true, hid his pretty head in Joe's breast, and Cecile clung a
little tighter to her young companion. Toby, however, again seemed the
only creature who had any wits about him. Now it would be impossible to
get back to Caen. There was, as far as the little party of pilgrims
were concerned, no Caen to return to, and yet they must not stand
there, for either the violence of the storm would throw them on their
faces, or the intense cold would freeze them to death. Onward must
still be their motto. But where? These, perhaps, were Toby's thoughts,
for certainly no one else thought at all. He set his keen wits to work.
Suddenly he remembered something. The moment the memory came to him, he
was an alert and active dog; in fact, he was once more in the post he
loved. He was the leader of the expedition. Again he seized Cecile's
thin and ragged frock; again he pulled her violently.

"No, no, Toby," she said in a muffled and sad tone; "there's no use
now, dear Toby."

"Foller him, foiler him; he has more sense than we jest now," said Joe,
rousing himself from his reverie.

Toby threw to the tall boy the first grateful look which had issued
from his brown eyes. Again he pulled Cecile, and the children, obeying
him, found themselves descending the path a little, and then the next
moment they were in comparative peace and comfort. Wise Toby had led
them to the sheltered side of an old wall. Here the snow did not beat,
and though eventually it would drift in this direction, yet here for
the next few hours the children might at least breathe and find
standing room.

"Bravo, Toby!" said Joe, in a tone of rapture; "we none of us seen this
old wall; why, it may save our lives. Now, if only the snow don't last
too long, and if only we can keep awake, we may do even yet."

"Why mayn't we go to sleep?" asked Cecile; "not that I am sleepy at two
o'clock in the day."

"Why mayn't we go to sleep?" echoed Joe. "Now, Missie, dear, I'm a
werry hignorant boy, but I knows this much, I knows this much as true
as gospel, and them as sleeps in the snow never, never wakes no more.
We must none of us drop asleep, we must do hevery think but sleep--you
and me, and Maurice and Toby. We must stay werry wide awake, and 'twill
be hard, for they do say, as the cruel thing is, the snow does make you
so desperate sleepy."

"Do you mean, Joe Barnes," asked Cecile, fixing her earnest little face
on the tall boy, "that if we little children went to sleep now, that
we'd die? Is that what you mean by never waking again?"

Joe nodded. "Yes, Missie, dear, that's about what I does mean," he said.

"To die, and never wake again," repeated Cecile, "then I'd see the
Guide. Oh, Joe! I'd _see_ Him, the lovely, lovely Jesus who I love so
very much."

"Oh! don't think on it, Miss Cecile; you has got to stay awake--you has
no call to think on no such thing, Missie."

Joe spoke with real and serious alarm. It seemed to him that Cecile in
her earnest desire to see this Guide might lie down and court the sleep
which would, alas! come so easily.

He was therefore surprised when she said to him in a quiet and
reproachful tone, "Do you think I would lie down and go to sleep and
die, Jography? I should like to die, but I must not die just yet. I'm a
very, very anxious little girl, and I have a great, great deal to do;
it would not be right for me even to think of dying yet. Not until I
have found Lovedy, and given Lovedy the purse of gold, and told Lovedy
all about her mother, then after that I should like to die."

"That's right, Missie; we won't think on no dying to-night. Now let's
do all we can to keep awake; let's walk up and down this little
sheltered bit under the wall; let's teach Toby to dance a bit; let's
jump about a bit."

If there was one thing in all the world poor Toby hated more than
another, it was these same dancing lessons. The fact was the poor dog
was too old to learn, and would never be much good as a dancing dog.

Already he so much dreaded this new accomplishment which was being
forced upon him, that at the very word dancing he would try and hide,
and always at least tuck his tail between his legs.

But now, what had transformed him? He heard what was intended
distinctly, but instead of shrinking away, he came forward at once, and
going close to Maurice's side, sat up with considerable skill, and then
bending forward took the little boy's hat off his head, and held it
between his teeth.

Toby had an object. He wanted to draw the attention of the others to
Maurice. And, in truth, he had not a moment to lose, for what they
dreaded had almost come to little Maurice--already the little child was
nearly asleep.

"This will never do," said Joe with energy. He took Maurice up roughly,
and shook him, and then drawing his attention to Toby, succeeded in
rousing him a little.

The next two hours were devoted by Cecile and Joe to Maurice, whom they
tickled, shouted to, played with, and when everything else failed, Joe
would even hold him up by his legs in the air.

Maurice did not quite go to sleep, but the cold was so intense that the
poor little fellow cried with pain.

At the end of about two hours the snow ceased. The dark clouds rolled
away from the sky, which shone down deep blue, peaceful, and
star-bespangled on the children. The wind, also, had gone down, and the
night was calm, though most bitterly cold.

It had, however, been a very terrible snowstorm, and the snow, quite
dazzling white, lay already more than a foot deep on the ground.

"Why, Cecile," said Joe, "I can see Caen again."

"Do you think we could walk back to Caen now, Joe?"

"I don't know. I'll jest try a little bit first. I wish we could. You
keep Maurice awake, Cecile, and I'll be back in a minute."

Cecile took her little brother in her arms, and Joe disappeared round
the corner of the old wall.

"Stay with the children, Toby," he said to the dog, and Toby stayed.

"Cecile," said Maurice, nestling up close to his sister, "'tisn't half
so cold now."

He spoke in a tone of great content and comfort, but his sweet baby
voice sounded thin and weak.

"Oh, yes! Maurice, darling, it's much colder. I'm in dreadful pain from
the cold."

"I was, Cecile, but 'tis gone. I'm not cold at all; I'm ever so
comfortable. You'll be like me when the pain goes."

"Maurice, I think we had better keep walking up and down."

"No, no, Cecile, I won't walk no more. I'm so tired, and I'm so
comfortable. Cecile, do they sing away in the South?"

"I don't know, darling. I suppose they do."

"Well, I know they sing in heaven. Mammie Moseley said so. Cecile, I'd
much rather go to heaven than to the South. Would not you?"

"Yes, I think so. Maurice, you must not go to sleep."

"I'm not going to sleep. Cecile, will you sing that pretty song about
glory? Mrs. Moseley used to sing it."

"That one about '_thousands of children_?'" said Cecile.

"Yes--singing, 'Glory, glory, glory.'"

Cecile began. She sang a line or two, then she stopped. Maurice had
fallen a little away from her. His mouth was partly open, his pretty
eyes were closed fast and tight. Cecile called him, she shook him, she
even cried over him, but all to no effect, he was fast asleep.

Yes, Maurice was asleep, and Cecile was holding him in her arms.

Joe was away? and Toby?--Cecile was not very sure where Toby was.

She and her little brother were alone, half buried in the snow. What a
dreadful position! What a terrible danger!

Cecile kept repeating to herself, "Maurice is asleep, Maurice will
never wake again. If I sleep I shall never wake again."

But the strange thing was that, realizing the danger, Cecile did not
care. She was not anxious about Joe. She had no disposition to call to
Toby. Even the purse of gold and the sacred promise became affairs of
little moment. Everything grew dim to her--everything indifferent. She
was only conscious of a sense of intense relief, only sure that the
dreadful, dreadful pain from the cold in her legs was leaving her--that
she, too, no longer felt the cold of the night. Jesus the Guide seemed
very, very near, and she fancied that she heard "thousands of children"
singing, "Glory, glory, glory."

Then she remembered no more.

CHAPTER IV.

TOBY AGAIN TO THE RESCUE.

Meanwhile Joe was struggling in a snowdrift. Not ten paces away he had
suddenly sunk down up to his waist. Notwithstanding his rough hard
life, his want of food, his many and countless privations, he was a
strong lad. Life was fresh and full within him. He would not, he could
not let it go cheaply. He struggled and tried hard to gain a firmer
footing, but although his struggles certainly kept him alive, they were
hitherto unavailing. Suddenly he heard a cry, and was conscious that
something heavy was springing in the air. This something was Toby, who,
in agony at the condition of Cecile and Maurice, had gone in search of
Joe. He now leaped on to the lad's shoulder, thus by no means assisting
his efforts to free himself.

"Hi, Toby lad! off! off!" he shouted; "back to the firm ground, good
dog."

Toby obeyed, and in so doing Joe managed to catch him by the tail. It
was certainly but slight assistance, but in some wonderful way it
proved itself enough. Joe got out of the drift, and was able to return
with the dog to the friendly shelter of the old wall. There, indeed, a
pang of terror and dismay seized him. Both children, locked tightly in
each other's arms, were sound asleep.

Asleep! Did it only mean sleep? That deathly pallor, that breathing
which came slower and slower from the pretty parted lips! Already the
little hands and feet were cold as death. Joe wondered if even now
could succor come, would it be in time? He turned to the one living
creature besides himself in this scene of desolation.

"Toby," he said, "is there any house near? Toby, if we cannot soon get
help for Cecile and Maurice, they will die. Think, Toby--think, good
dog."

Toby looked hard at Joe Barnes. Then he instantly sat down on his hind
legs. Talk of dogs not having thoughts--Toby was considering hard just
then. He felt a swelling sense of gratitude and even love for Joe for
consulting him. He would put his dog's brain to good use now. Already
he had thought of the friendly shelter of the old broken wall. Now he
let his memory carry him back a trifle farther. What else had those
sharp eyes of his taken in besides the old wall? Why, surely, surely,
just down in the hollow, not many yards away, a little smoke. Did not
smoke mean a fire? Did not a fire mean a house? Did not a house mean
warmth and food and comfort? Toby was on his feet in a moment, his tail
wagging fast. He looked at Joe and ran on, the boy following carefully.
Very soon Joe too saw, not only a thin column of smoke, but a thick
volume, caused by a large wood fire, curling up amidst the whiteness of
the snow. The moment his eyes rested on the welcome sight, he sent Toby
back. "Go and lie on the children, Toby. Keep them as warm as you can,
good dog, dear dog." And Toby obeyed.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FARM IN NORMANDY.

A Norman gentleman farmer and his wife sat together in their snug
parlor. Their children had all gone to bed an hour ago. Their one
excellent servant was preparing supper in the kitchen close by. The
warmly-curtained room had a look of almost English comfort. Children's
books and toys lay scattered about. The good house-mother, after
putting these in order, sat down by her husband's side to enjoy the
first quiet half hour of the day.

"What a fall of snow we have had, Marie," said M. Dupois, "and how
bitterly cold it is! Why, already the thermometer is ten degrees below
zero. I hate such deep snow. I must go out with the sledge the first
thing in the morning and open a road."

Of course this husband and wife conversed in French, which is here
translated.

"Hark!" said Mme. Dupois, suddenly raising her forefinger, "is not that
something like a soft knocking? Can anyone have fallen down in this
deep snow at our door?"

M. Dupois rose at once and pushed aside the crimson curtain from one of
the windows.

"Yes, yes," he exclaimed quickly, "you are right, my good wife; here is
a lad lying on the ground. Run and get Annette to heat blankets and
make the kitchen fire big. I will go round to the poor boy."

When M. Dupois did at last reach Joe Barnes, he had only strength to
murmur in his broken French, "Go and save the others under the old
wall--two children and dog"--before he fainted away.

But his broken words were enough; he had come to people who had the
kindest hearts in the world.

It seemed but a moment before he himself was reviving before the
blazing warmth of a great fire, while the good farmer with three of his
men was searching for the missing children.

They were not long in discovering them, with the dog himself, now
nearly frozen, stretched across Cecile's body.

Poor little starving lambs! they were taken into warmth and shelter,
though it was a long time before either Cecile or Maurice showed the
faintest signs of life.

Maurice came to first, Cecile last. Indeed so long was she unconscious,
so unavailing seemed all the warm brandy that was poured between her
lips, that Mme. Dupois thought she must be dead.

The farmer's children, awakened by the noise, had now slipped
downstairs in their little nightdresses. And when at last Cecile's blue
eyes opened once more on this world, it was to look into the bright
black orbs of a little Norman maiden of about her own age.

"Oh, look, mamma! Look! her eyes open, she sees! she lives! she moves!
Ah, mother! how pleased I am."

The little French girl cried in her joy, and Cecile watched her
wonderingly, After a time she asked in a feeble, fluttering voice:

"Please is this heaven? Have we two little children really got to
heaven?"

Her English words were only understood by Mme. Dupois, and not very
perfectly by her. She told the child that she was not in heaven, but in
a kind earthly home, where she need not think, but just eat something
and then go to sleep.

"And oh, mamma! How worn her little shoes are! and may I give her my
new hat, mamma?" asked the pretty and pitying little Pauline.

"In the morning, my darling. In the morning we will see to all that.
Now the poor little wanderers must have some nice hot broth, and then
they shall sleep here by the kitchen fire."

Strange to say, notwithstanding the terrible hardships they had
undergone, neither Cecile nor Maurice was laid up with rheumatic fever.
They slept soundly in the warmth and comfort of the delicious kitchen,
and awoke the next morning scarcely the worse for their grave danger
and peril.

And now followed what might have been called a week in the Palace
Beautiful for these little pilgrims. For while the snow lasted, and the
weather continued so bitterly cold, neither M. nor Mme. Dupois would
hear of their leaving them. With their whole warm hearts these good
Christian people took in the children brought to them by the snow.
Little Pauline and her brother Charles devoted themselves to Cecile and
Maurice, and though their mutual ignorance of the only language the
others could speak was owned to be a drawback, yet they managed to play
happily and to understand a great deal; and here, had Cecile confided
as much of her little story to kind Mme. Dupois as she had done to Joe
Barnes, all that follows need never have been written. But alas! again
that dread, that absolute terror that her purse of gold, if discovered,
might be taken from her, overcame the poor little girl; so much so
that, when Madame questioned her in her English tone as to her life's
history, and as to her present pilgrimage, Cecile only replied that she
was going through France on her way to the South, that she had
relations in the South. Joe, when questioned, also said that he had a
mother and a brother in the South, and that he was taking care of
Cecile and Maurice on their way there.

Mme. Dupois did not really know English well, and Cecile's reserve,
joined to her few words of explanation, only puzzled her. As both she
and her husband were poor, and could not, even if it were desirable,
adopt the children, there seemed nothing for it but, when the weather
cleared, to let them continue on their way.

"There is one thing, however, we can do to help them," said M. Dupois.
"I have decided to sell that corn and hay in Paris, and as the horses
are just eating their heads off with idleness just now in their
stables, the men shall take the wagons there instead of having the
train expenses; the children therefore can ride to Paris in the wagons."

"That will take nearly a week, will it not, Gustave?" asked Mme. Dupois.

"It will take three or four days, but I will provision the men. Yes, I
think it the best plan, and the surest way of disposing advantageously
of the hay and corn. The children may be ready to start by Monday. The
roads will be quite passable then."

So it was decided, and so it came to pass; Charles and Pauline assuring
Joe, who in turn informed Cecile and Maurice, that the delights of
riding in one of their papa's wagons passed all description. Pauline
gave Cecile not only a new hat but new boots and a new frock. Maurice's
scanty and shabby little wardrobe was also put in good repair, nor was
poor Joe neglected, and with tears and blessing on both sides, these
little pilgrims parted from those who had most truly proved to them
good Samaritans.

CHAPTER IX.

O MINE ENEMY!

Whatever good Cecile's purse of gold might be to her ultimately, at
present it was but a source of peril and danger.

Had anyone suspected the child of carrying about so large a treasure,
her life even might have been the forfeit. Joe Barnes knew this well,
and he was most careful that no hint as to the existence of the purse
should pass his lips.

During the week the children spent at the happy Norman farm all indeed
seemed very safe, and yet even there, there was a secret, hidden
danger. A danger which would reveal itself by and by.

As I have said, it was arranged that the little party should go to
Paris in M. Dupois' wagons; and the night before their departure Joe
had come to Cecile, and begged her during their journey, when it would
be impossible for them to be alone, and when they must be at all times
more or less in the company of the men who drove and managed the
wagons, to be most careful not to let anyone even suspect the existence
of the purse. He even begged of her to let him take care of it for her
until they reached Paris. But when she refused to part with it, he got
her to consent that he should keep enough silver out of its contents to
pay their slight expenses on the road.

Very slight these expenses would be, for kind M. Dupois had provisioned
the wagons with food, and at night they would make a comfortable
shelter. Still Cecile so far listened to Joe as to give him some francs
out of her purse.

She had an idea that it was safest in the hiding place next her heart,
where her stepmother had seen her place it, and she had made a firm
resolve that, if need be, her life should be taken before she parted
with this precious purse of gold. For the Russia-leather purse
represented her honor to the little girl.

But, as I said, an unlooked-for danger was near--a danger, too, which
had followed her all the way from Warren's Grove. Lydia Purcell had
always been very particular whom she engaged to work on Mrs. Bell's
farm, generally confining herself to men from the same shire. But
shortly before the old lady's death, being rather short of hands to
finish the late harvest, a tramp from some distant part of the country
had offered his services. Lydia, driven to despair to get a certain job
finished before the weather finally broke, had engaged him by the week,
had found him an able workman, and had not ever learned to regret her
choice. The man, however, was disliked by his fellow-laborers. They
called him a foreigner, and accused him of being a sneak and a spy. All
these charges he denied stoutly; nevertheless they were true. The man
was of Norman-French birth. He had drifted over to England when a lad.
His parents had been respectable farmers in Normandy. They had educated
their son; he was clever, and had the advantage of knowing both French
and English thoroughly. Nevertheless he was a bad fellow. He consorted
with rogues; he got into scrapes; many times he saw the inside of an
English prison. But so plausible was Simon Watts--as he called himself
on the Warren's Grove farm--that Aunt Lydia was completely taken in by
him. She esteemed him a valuable servant, and rather spoiled him with
good living. Simon, keeping his own birth for many reasons a profound
secret, would have been more annoyed than gratified had he learned that
the children on the farm were also French. He heard this fact through
an accident on the night of their departure. It so happened that Simon
slept in a room over the stable where the pony was kept; and Jane
Parsons, in going for this pony to harness him to the light cart, awoke
Simon from his light slumber. He came down to find her harnessing Bess;
and on his demanding what she wanted with the pony at so very early an
hour, she told him in her excitement rather more of the truth than was
good for him to know.

"Those blessed children were being robbed of quite a large sum of
money. They wanted the money to carry them back to France. It had been
left to the little girl for a certain purpose by one who was dead. They
were little French children, bless them! Lydia Purcell had a heart of
stone, but she, Jane, had outwitted her. The children had got back
their money, and Jane was about to drive them over to catch the night
mail for London, where they should be well received and cared for by a
friend of her own."

So explained Jane Parsons, and Simon Watts had listened; he wished for
a few moments that he had known about this money a little sooner, and
then, seeing that there seemed no help for it, as the children were
being moved absolutely out of his reach, had dismissed the matter from
his mind.

But, see! how strange are the coincidences of life! Soon after, Simon
not only learned that all the servants on the farm were to change
hands, that many of them would be dismissed, but he also learned some
very disagreeable news in connection with the police, which would make
it advisable for him to make himself scarce at a moment's notice. He
vanished from Warren's Grove, and not being very far from Dover, worked
his way across the Channel in a fishing-smack, and once more, after an
absence of ten years, trod his native shores.

Instantly he dropped his character as an Englishman, and became as
French as anyone about him. He walked to Caen, found out M. Dupois, and
was engaged on his farm. Thus he once more, in the most unlooked-for
manner, came directly across the paths of Cecile and Maurice.

But a further queer thing was to happen. Watts now calling himself
Anton, being better educated than his fellow-laborers, and having
always a wonderful power of impressing others with his absolute
honesty, was thought a highly desirable person by M. Dupois to
accompany his head-steward to Paris, and assist him in the sale of the
great loads of hay and corn. Cecile and Maurice did not know him in the
least. He was now dressed in the blouse of a French peasant, and
besides they had scarcely ever seen him at Warren's Grove.

But Anton, recognizing the children, thought about them day and night.
He considered it a wonderful piece of luck that had brought these
little pilgrims again across his path. He was an unscrupulous man, he
was a thief, he resolved that the children's money should be his. He
had, however, some difficulties to encounter. Watching them closely, he
saw that Cecile never paid for anything. That, on all occasions, when a
few sous were needed, Joe was appealed to, and from Joe's pocket would
the necessary sum be forthcoming.

He, therefore, concluded that Cecile had intrusted her money to Joe.
Had he not been so very sure of this--had he for a moment believed that
a little child so helpless and so young as Cecile carried about with
her so much gold--I am afraid he would have simply watched his
opportunity, have stifled the cries of the little creature, have torn
her treasure from her grasp, and decamped. But Anton believed that Joe
was the purse-bearer, and Joe was a more formidable person to deal
with. Joe was very tall and strong for his age; whereas Anton was a
remarkably little and slender man. Joe, too, watched the children day
and night like a dragon. Anton felt that in a hand-to-hand fight Joe
would have the best of it. Also, to declare his knowledge of the
existence of the purse, he would have to disclose his English
residence, and his acquaintance with the English tongue. That fact once
made known might have seriously injured his prospects with M. Dupois'
steward, and, in place of anything better, he wished to keep in the
good graces of this family for the present.

Still so clever a person as Anton, _alias_ Watts, could go warily to
work, and after thinking it all over, he decided to make himself
agreeable to Joe. In their very first interview he set his own mind
completely at rest as to the fact that the children carried money with
them; that the large sum spoken of by Jane Parsons was still intact,
and still in their possession.

Not that poor Joe had revealed a word; but when Anton led up to the
subject of money there was an eager, too eager avoidance of the theme,
joined to a troubled and anxious expression in his boyish face, which
told the clever and bad man all he wanted.

In their second long talk together, he learned little by little the
boy's own history. Far more than he had cared to confide to Cecile did
Joe tell to Anton of his early life, of his cruel suffering as a little
apprentice to his bad master, of his bitter hardships, of his narrow
escapes, finally of his successful running away. And now of the hope
which burned within him night and day; the hope of once more seeing his
mother, of once more being taken home to his mother's heart.

"I'd rather die than give it up," said poor Joe in conclusion, and when
he said these words with sudden and passionate fervor, wicked Anton
felt that the ball, as he expressed it, was at his feet.

Anton resolved so to work on Joe's fears, so to trade on his affections
for his mother and his early home, and if necessary, so to threaten to
deliver him up to his old master, who could punish him for running
away, that Joe himself, to set himself free, would part with Cecile's
purse of gold.

The bad man could scarcely sleep with delight as he formed his schemes;
he longed to know how much the purse contained--of course in his
eagerness he doubled the sum it really did possess.

He now devoted all his leisure time to the little pilgrims, and all the
little party made friends with him except Toby. But wise Toby looked
angry when he saw him talking to Cecile, and pretending that he was
learning some broken English from her pretty lips.

When they got to Paris, Anton promised to provide the children with
both cheap and comfortable lodgings. He had quite determined not to
lose sight of them until his object was accomplished.

CHAPTER X.

WARNED OF GOD IN A DREAM.

And now a strange thing happened to Cecile, something which shows, I
think, very plainly how near the heavenly Guide really was to His
little wandering lamb.

After nearly a week spent on the road M. Dupois' wagons reached Paris
in perfect safety, and then Anton, according to his promise, took the
three children and their dog to lodge with a friend of his.

M. Dupois' steward made no objection to this arrangement, for Anton
seemed a most steady and respectable man, and the children had all made
great friends with him.

Chuckling inwardly, Anton led his little charges to a part of Paris
called the Cite. This was where the very poor lived, and Anton guessed
it would best suit his purpose. The houses were very old and shabby,
most of them consisting of only two stories, though a few could even
boast of four. These wretched and dirty houses were quite as bad as any
London slums. Little particular Maurice declared he did not like the
nasty smells, but on Anton informing Cecile that lodgings would be very
cheap here, she made up her mind to stay for at least a night. Anton
took the children up to the top of one of the tallest of the houses.
Here were two fair-sized rooms occupied by an old man and woman. The
man was ill and nearly blind, the woman was also too aged and infirm to
work. She seemed, however, a good-natured old soul, and told Joe--for,
of course, she did not understand a word of English--that she had lost
five children, but though they were often almost starving, she could
never bring herself to sell these little ones' clothes--she now pointed
to them hanging on five peg--on the wall. The old couple had a grandson
aged seventeen. This boy, thin and ragged as he was, had a face full of
fun and mischief. "He picks up odd jobs, and so we manage to live,"
said the old woman to Joe.

Both she and her husband were glad to take the children in, and
promised to make them comfortable--which they did, after a fashion.

"We can stay here one night. We shall be quite rested and able to go on
down south to-morrow, Joe," said Cecile.

And Joe nodded, inwardly resolving that one night in such quarters
should be all they should spend. For he felt that though of course
Anton knew nothing about the existence of the purse, yet, that had it
been known, it would not be long in Cecile's possession were she to
remain there.

Poor Joe! he little guessed that Anton had heard and understood every
word of Cecile's English, and was making up his mind just as firmly as
Joe. His intention was that not one of that little band should leave
the purlieus of the Cite until that purse with its precious contents
was his.

The old couple, however, were really both simple and honest. They had
no accommodation that night for Anton; consequently, for that first
night Cecile's treasure was tolerably free from danger.

And now occurred that event which I must consider the direct
intervention of the Guide Jesus on Cecile's behalf. This event was
nothing more nor less than a dream. Now anyone may dream. Of all the
common and unimportant things under the sun, dreams in our present day
rank as the commonest, the most unimportant. No one thinks about
dreams. People, if they have got any reputation for wisdom, do not even
care to mention them. Quite true, but there are dreams and dreams; and
I still hold to my belief that Cecile's dream was really sent to her
direct from heaven.

For instance, there never was a more obstinate child than Cecile
D'Albert. Once get an idea or a resolve firmly fixed in her ignorant
and yet wise little head, and she would cling to it for bare life. Her
dead stepmother's directions were as gospel to the little girl, and one
of her directions was to keep the purse at all hazards. Not any amount
of wise talking, not the most clear exposition of the great danger she
ran in retaining it, could have moved her. She really loved Joe. But
Joe's words would have been as nothing to her, had he asked her to
transfer the precious leather purse to his care. And yet a dream
converted Cecile, and induced her to part with her purse without any
further difficulty. Lying on a heap of straw by Maurice's side, Cecile
dreamt in that vivid manner which makes a vision of the night so real.

Jesus the Guide came into the room. It was no longer a man or a woman,
or even a kind boy sent by Him. No, no, He came Himself. He came
radiant and yet human, with a face something as Cecile imagined her own
mother's face, and He said, "Lovedy's gold is in danger, it is no
longer safe with you. Take it to-morrow to the Faubourg St. G----.
There is an English lady there. Her name will be on the door of a
house. Ask to see her. She will be at home. Give her Lovedy's money to
keep for her. The money will be quite safe then."

Immediately after this extraordinary dream Cecile awoke, nor could she
close her eyes again that night. The Faubourg St. G---- kept dancing
before her eyes. She seemed to see a shabby suburb, and then a long and
rather narrow street, and when her eyes were quite weary with all the
strange French names, there came a plain unmistakable English name, and
Cecile felt that the lady who bore this name must be the caretaker of
the precious purse for the present. Yes, she must go to the Faubourg
St. G----. She must find it without delay. Cecile believed in her dream
most fervently. She was quite sure there was such a part of the great
city--there was such a lady. Had not Jesus the Guide come Himself to
tell her to go to her?

Cecile, reading her New Testament for the first time, had vivid
memories about its wonderful stories. What, alas! is often hackneyed to
older and so-called wiser folks, came with power to the little child.
Cecile was not surprised that she should be told what to do in a dream.
The New Testament was full of accounts of people who were warned of God
in a dream. She, too, had been sent this divine warning. Nothing should
prevent her acting upon it. In the morning she resolved to tell Joe all
about her vision, and then ask him to take her without delay to the
English lady who lived in the Faubourg St. G----. But when she got up
no Joe was visible, and the old woman managed to convey to her that he
had gone out to make some inquiries about their journey south, and
would not be back for some hours. She then poured out a decoction which
she called coffee and gave it to the children, and Cecile drank it off,
wondering, as she did so, how she, who did not know a word of French,
could find her way alone to the Faubourg St. G----. As she thought, she
raised her eyes and encountered the fixed, amused, and impudent gaze of
the old woman's grandson. This lad had taken a fancy to Cecile and
Maurice from the first. He now sat opposite to them as they ate. His
legs were crossed under him, his hands were folded across his breast.
He stared hard. He did nothing but stare. But this occupation seemed to
afford him the fullest content.

Maurice said, "Nasty rude man," and shook his hand at him.

But Pericard, not understanding a single word of English, only laughed,
and placidly continued his amusement.

Suddenly a thought came to Cecile:

"Pericard," she said, "Faubourg St. G----."

Pericard nodded, and looked intelligent.

"Oui," he answered, "Faubourg St. G----."

Cecile then got up, took his hand, and pointed first to the window then
to the door. Then she touched herself and Maurice, and again said:

"Faubourg St. G----."

Pericard nodded again. He understood her perfectly.

"Oui, oui, Mam'selle," he said, and now he took Cecile's hand, and
Cecile took Maurice's, and they went down into the street. They had
only turned a corner, when Anton came up to the lodging. The old woman
could but inform him that the children had gone out with Pericard. That
she did not know when they would be back. That Joe also had gone away
quite early.

Anton felt inclined to swear. He had made a nice little plan for this
morning. He had sent Joe away on purpose. There was nothing now for it
but to wait the children's return, as it would be worse than useless to
pursue them over Paris. He only hoped, as he resigned himself to his
fate, that they would return before Joe did.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FAUBOURG ST. G----.

Pericard was a genuine French lad. Perhaps few boys had undergone more
hardships in his life; he had known starvation, he had known blows, he
had felt in their extremity both winter's cold and summer's heat. True,
his old grandmother gave him what she could, both of love and kindness.
But the outside world had been decidedly rough on Pericard. An English
boy would have shown this on his face. He would have appeared careworn,
he would scarcely have seemed gay. Very far otherwise, however, was it
with this French lad. His merry eyes twinkled continually. He laughed,
he whistled, he danced. His misfortunes seemed to have no power to
enter into him; they only swept around.

Had he then a shallow heart? Who can tell? He was a genuine specimen of
the ordinary Paris gamin.

Pericard now much enjoyed the idea of taking Cecile and Maurice out to
the rather distant suburb called the Faubourg St. G----.

He knew perfectly how to get there. He knew that Cecile, who understood
no French wanted to find herself there. He understood nothing, and
cared less for what her object was in going there.

He was to be her guide. He would lead her safely to this faubourg, and
then back again to his grandmother's house.

Pericard, for all his rags, had something of a gentleman's heart.

He enjoyed guiding this very fair and pretty little lady.

Of course, Maurice and Toby came too. But Cecile was Pericard's
princess on this occasion.

As they walked along, it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be
to treat his princess--to buy a dainty little breakfast from one or
more of the venders who spread their tempting condiments on different
stalls, as they passed. He might purchase some fruit, some chocolate, a
roll, some butter. Then! how good these things would be, shared between
him and the princess, and, of course, the little brother and the good
dog, and eaten in that same faubourg, where the air must be a little
better, purer than in Paris proper. If only he had the necessary sous?

Alas! he only possessed one centime, and that would buy no dainties
worth mentioning.

As the funny little group walked along, Pericard steering straight and
clear in the right direction, they saw an old Jew clothesman walking
just in front of them. There was nothing particular about this old
fellow. He was, doubtless, doing as lucrative a trade in Paris as
elsewhere. But, nevertheless, Pericard's bright eyes lighted up at
sight of him.

He felt hastily once again in his ragged coat; there rested his one
centime. Nodding to Cecile and Maurice, and making signs that he would
return instantly, he rushed after the old Jew--tore his coat from his
back, and offered it for sale.

It was an old garment, greasy and much worn, but the lining was still
good, and, doubtless, it helped to keep Pericard warm. Intent, however,
now on the trick he meant to play, he felt no cold.

The old Jew salesman, who never _on principle_ rejected the possible
making of even a few sous, stopped to examine the shabby article. In
deliberation as to its age, etc., he contrived also to feel the
condition of its pockets. Instantly, as the boy hoped, he perceived the
little piece of money. His greedy old face lit up. After thinking a
moment, he offered one franc for the worthless garment.

Pericard could not part with it for a franc. Then he offered two.
Pericard stuck out for three. He would give the greasy and ragged old
coat for three francs. The Jew felt the pocket again. It was a large
sum to risk for what in itself was not worth many sous; but, then, he
might not have such a chance again. Finally, he made up his mind, and
put three francs into Pericard's eager hand.

Instantly the old fellow pounced upon his hidden treasure. Behold! a
solitary--a miserable centime. His rage knew no bounds! He called it an
infamous robbery! He shouted to Pericard to take back his rags!

Whistling and laughing, the French boy exclaimed: "Pas si bete!" and
then returned to the children.

Now, indeed, was Pericard happy. He nodded most vigorously to Cecile.
He showed her his three francs. He tossed them in the air. He spun them
before him on the dirty road. It seemed wonderful that he did not lose
his treasures. Finally, after indulging in about six somersaults in
succession, he deposited the coins in his mouth, and became grave after
his own fashion again.

Now must he and the English children, for such he believed them, have
the exquisite delight of spending this precious money. They turned into
a street which resembled more an ordinary market than a street. Here
were provisions in abundance; here were buyers and sellers; here was
food of all descriptions. Each vender of food had his own particular
stall, set up under his own particular awning. Pericard seemed to know
the place well. Maurice screamed with delight at the sight of so much
delicious food, and even patient Toby licked his chops, and owned to
himself that their morning's breakfast had been very scanty.

Cecile alone--too intent on her mission to be hungry--felt little
interest in the tempting stalls.

Pericard, however, began to lay in provisions judiciously. Here in this
Rue de Sevres, were to be bought fruit, flowers, vegetables of all
kinds, butter, cheese, cream, and even fish.

"Bonjour, Pere Bison," said Pericard, who, feeling himself rich, made
his choice with care and deliberation.

This old man sold turkey eggs, cream-cheese, and butter. Pericard
purchased a tiny piece of deliciously fresh-looking butter, a small
morsel of cream-cheese, and three turkey eggs; at another stall he
bought some rolls; at a third a supply of fresh and rosy apples. Thus
provided, he became an object of immense attraction to Toby, and, it
must be owned, also to Maurice.

As they walked along, in enforced silence, Pericard indulged in
delicious meditations. What a moment that would be when they sucked
those turkeys eggs! how truly delightful to see his dainty little
princess enjoying her morsel of cream-cheese!

At last, after what seemed an interminable time, they reached the
faubourg dreamed of so vividly the night before by Cecile. It was a
large place, and also a very poor neighborhood.

Having arrived at their destination. Pericard pointed to the name on a
lamp-post, spreading out his arms with a significant gesture; then,
letting them drop to his sides, stood still. His object was
accomplished. He now waited impatiently for the moment when they might
begin their feast.

Cecile felt a strange fluttering at her heart; the place was so large,
the streets so interminable. Where, how, should she find the lady with
the English name?

Pericard was now of no further use. He must follow where she led. She
walked on, her steps flagging--despondency growing at her heart.

Was her dream then not real after all? Ah, yes! it must, it must be a
Heaven-sent warning. Was not Joseph warned of God in a dream? Was he
not told where to go and what to do?--just as Cecile herself had been
told by the blessed Lord Himself. Only an angel had come to Joseph, but
Jesus Himself had counseled Cecile. Yes, she was now in the
faubourg--she must presently find the lady bearing the English name.

The Faubourg St. G---- was undoubtedly a poor suburb, but just even
when Pericard's patience began to give way, the children saw a row of
houses taller and better than any they had hitherto come across. The
English lady must live there. Cecile again, with renewed hope and
confidence, walked down the street. At the sixth house she stopped, and
a cry of joy, of almost rapture, escaped her lips. Amid all the
countless foreign words and names stood a modest English one on a neat
door painted green. In the middle of a shining brass plate appeared two
very simple, very common words--_"Miss Smith."_

CHAPTER XII.

THE WINSEY FROCK.

Her voice almost trembling with suppressed excitement, Cecile turned to
her little brother.

"Maurice, Miss Smith lives here. She is an English lady. I must see
her. You will stay outside with Pericard, Maurice; and Toby will take
care of you. Don't go away. Just walk up and down. I shan't be long;
and, Maurice, you won't go away?"

"No," answered Maurice, "I won't run away. I will eat some of that nice
breakfast without waiting for you, Cecile; for I am hungry, but I won't
run away."

Then Maurice took Pericard's hand. Toby wagged his tail knowingly, and
Cecile ran up the steps of Miss Smith's house. A young girl, with the
round fresh face of old England, answered her modest summons.

"Yes," she said, "Miss Smith was at home." She would inquire if she
could see the little girl from London. She invited Cecile to step into
the hall; and a moment or two later showed her into a very small,
neatly furnished parlor. This small room was quite in English fashion,
and bore marks of extreme neatness, joined to extremely slender means.

Cecile stood by the round table in the center of the room. She had now
taken her purse from the bosom of her dress, and when Miss Smith
entered, she came up to her at once, holding it in her hand.

"If you please," said Cecile, "Jesus the Guide says you will take care
of this for me. He sent me to you, and said you would take great, great
care of my money. 'Tis all quite right. Will you open the purse,
please? 'Tis a Russia-leather purse, and there's forty pounds in it,
and about eleven or twelve more, I think. I must have some to take me
and Maurice and Toby down south. But Jesus says you will take great
care of the rest."

"Child," said Miss Smith. She was a very little woman, with a white,
thin, and worn face. She looked nearer fifty than forty. Her hair was
scanty and gray. When Cecile offered her the purse she flushed
painfully, stepped back a pace or two, and pushed it from her.

"Child," she repeated, "are you mad, or is it Satan is sending you
here? Pretty little girl, with the English tongue, do you know that I
am starving?"

"Oh!" said Cecile. Her face showed compassion, but she did not attempt
to take up her purse. On the contrary, she left it on the table close
to Miss Smith, and retreated to the farther side herself.

"Starving means being very, very hungry," said Cecile. "I know what
that means, just a little. It is a bad feeling. I am sorry. There is a
turkey egg waiting for me outside. I will fetch it for you in a moment.
But you are quite wrong in saying it was Satan sent me to you. I don't
know anything about Satan. It was the blessed, blessed Jesus the Guide
sent me. He came last night in a dream. He told me to go to the
Faubourg St. G---- and I should find an English lady, and she would
take great care of my Russia-leather purse. It was a true warning, just
as Joseph's dream was true. He was warned of God in a dream, just as I
was last night."

"And I am the only Englishwoman in the faubourg," said Miss Smith. "I
have lived here for ten years now, and I never heard of any other. I
teach, or, rather, I did teach English in a Pension de Demoiselles
close by, and I have been dismissed. I was thought too old-fashioned. I
can't get any more employment, and I had just broken into my last franc
piece when you came. I might have done without food, but Molly was _so_
hungry. Molly is going to-morrow, and I shall be alone. Yes, little
English girl, you do right to reprove me. I, too, have loved the Lord
Jesus. Sit down! Sit down on that chair, and tell me, in my own dear
tongue, the story of that purse."

"I am not an English girl," said Cecile; "I am French; I come from the
south, from the Pyrenees; but my father brought me to England when I
was two years old, and I don't know any French. My father died, and I
had a stepmother; and my stepmother died, and when she was dying she
gave me a charge. It was a great charge, and it weighs heavily on my
heart, and makes me feel very old. My stepmother had a daughter who ran
away from her when she married my father. My stepmother thinks she went
to France, and got lost in France, and she gave me a purse of
money--some to give to Lovedy, and some to spend in looking for her. I
feel that Lovedy has gone south, and I am going down south, too, to
find her. I, and my little brother, and our dog, and a big, kind
boy--we are all going south to find Lovedy. And last night Jesus the
Guide came to me in a dream, and told me that my purse was in danger,
and He told me to come to you. Satan had nothing at all to say to it.
It was Jesus sent me to you."

"I believe you, child," said Miss Smith. "You bring the strangest tale,
but I believe you. You bring a purse containing a lot of money to a
starving woman. Well, I never was brought so low as not to be honest
yet. How much money is in the purse, little girl?"

"There are four ten-pound notes--that makes forty pounds," said
Cecile--"that is Lovedy's money; there are about eleven pounds of the
money I must spend. You must give me that eleven pounds, please, Miss
Smith, and you must keep the forty pounds very, _very_ safely until I
come for it, or send for it."

"What is your name, little girl?"

"Cecile D'Albert."

"Well, Cecile, don't you think that if you had a dream about the forty
pounds being in danger, that the eleven pounds will be in danger too?
Someone must have guessed you had that money, little one, and and if
they can't get hold of the forty pounds, they will take the eleven."

Cecile felt herself growing a trifle pale.

"I never thought of that," she said. "I cannot look for Lovedy without
a little money. What shall I do, Miss Smith?"

"Let me think," said Miss Smith.

She rested her chin on her hand and one or two puckers came into her
brow, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth. After a moment or two
her face brightened.

"Is the money English money, little girl?" she said.

"Yes," answered Cecile; "the captain on board the boat from England did
change some, but all the French money is gone now."

"That won't do at all, Cecile; you must have French money. Now, my
dear, will you kindly take that eleven pounds out of your purse and
reckon it before me?"

Cecile did so--eleven sovereigns lay glittering and tempting on Miss
Smith's table.

"There, child, I am going to put on my bonnet and shawl, and I shall
take that money out with me, and be back again in a few moments. You
wait here, Cecile, I will bring back French money; you watch your purse
until I return."

While Miss Smith was out, there came a ring to the door bell, and the
little fresh-colored English servant brought in a letter, and laid it
beside the purse which Cecile stood near, but did not offer to touch.

In about twenty minutes Miss Smith reappeared. She looked excited, and
even cheerful.

"It does me good to help one of the Lord's little ones," she said, "and
it does me good to hear the English tongue; except from Molly, I never
hear it now, and Molly goes to-morrow. Well, never mind. Now, Cecile,
listen to me. Do you see this bag? It is big, and heavy, it is full of
your money; twenty-five francs for every sovereign--two hundred and
seventy-five francs in all. You could not carry that heavy bag about
with you; it would be discovered, and you would be robbed at once.

"But I have hit on a plan. See! I have brought in another parcel--this
parcel contains cotton wool. I perceive that little frock you have on
has three tucks in it. I am going to unpick those tucks, and line them
softly with cotton wool, and lay the francs in the cotton wool. I will
do it cleverly, and no one will guess that any money could be hidden in
that common little winsey frock. Now, child, you slip it off, and I
will put the money in, and I will give you a needle and thread and a
nice little sharp scissors, and every night when folks are quite sound
asleep, and you are sure no one is looking, you must unpick enough of
one of the tucks to take out one franc, or two francs, according as you
want them; only be sure you sew the tuck up again. The money will make
the frock a trifle heavy, and you must never take it off your back
whatever happens until you get to the English girl; but I can hit on no
better plan."

"I think it is a lovely, lovely plan," said Cecile, and then she
slipped off the little frock, and Miss Smith wrapped her carefully in
an old shawl of her own; and the next two hours were spent in
skillfully lining the tucks with their precious contents.

When this was finished Miss Smith got a hot iron, and ironed the tucks
so skillfully that they looked as flat as they had done before. Some of
the money, also, she inserted in the body of the frock, and thus
enriched, it was once more put on by Cecile.

"Now, Cecile," said Miss Smith, "I feel conceited, for I don't believe
anyone will ever think of looking there for your money; and I am to
keep the Russia-leather purse and the forty pounds and they are for an
English girl called Lovedy. How shall I know her when she comes, or
will you only return to fetch them yourself, little one?"

"I should like that best," said Cecile; "but I might die, or be very
ill, and then Lovedy would never get her money. Miss Smith, perhaps you
will write something on a little bit of paper, and then give the paper
to me, and if I cannot come myself I will give the paper to Lovedy, or
somebody else; when you see your own bit of paper again, then you will
know that you are to give Lovedy's purse to the person who gives you
the paper."

"That is not a bad plan," said Miss Smith; "at least," she added, "I
can think of no better. I will write something then for you, Cecile."

She forthwith provided herself with a sheet of paper and a pen and
wrote as follows:

"Received this day of Cecile D'Albert the sum of Forty Pounds, in four
Bank of England notes, inclosed in a Russia-leather purse. Will return
purse and money to the bearer of this paper whoever that person may be.

"So help me God. HANNAH SMITH."

As Hannah Smith added those words, "So help me God," a deep flush came
to her pale face and the thin hand that held the pen trembled.

"There, Cecile," she said, "you must keep that little piece of paper
even more carefully than the money, for anyone who secured this might
claim the money. I will sew it into your frock myself." Which the good
soul did; and then the old maid blessed the child, and she went away.

Long after Cecile had left her, Miss Smith sat on by the table--that
purse untouched by her side.

"A sudden and sore temptation," she said, at last, aloud. "But it did
not last. So help me God, it will never return--SO HELP ME GOD."

Then she fell on her knees and began to pray, and as she prayed she
wept.

It was nearly an hour before the lonely Englishwoman rose from her
knees. When she did so, she took up the purse to put it by. In doing
this, she for the first time noticed the letter which had arrived when
she was out. She opened it, read it hastily through. Then Miss Smith,
suddenly dropping both purse and letter fell on her knees again.

The letter contained the offer of a much better situation as English
teacher than the one she had been deprived of. Thus did God send both
the temptation and the deliverance almost simultaneously.

CHAPTER XIII.

A MIDNIGHT SEARCH.

Anton had to wait a long time, until he felt both cross and impatient,
and when at last Cecile and Maurice returned to the funny little attic
in the Cite, Joe almost immediately followed them.

Joe told the children that he had made very exact inquiries, and that
he believed they might start for the south the next day. He spoke, of
course, in English, and, never supposing that Anton knew a word of that
tongue was at no pains to refrain from discussing their plans in his
presence.

Anton, apparently engaged in puffing a pipe in a corner of the room
with his eyes half shut, looking stupid and half asleep, of course took
in every word.

"They would start early the next morning. Oh, yes! they were more than
welcome; they might go to the south, the farther from him the better,
always provided that he secured the purse first."

As he smoked, he laid his plans. He was quite sure that one of the
children had the purse. He suspected the one to be Joe. But to make
sure, he determined to search all three.

He must search the children that night. How should he accomplish his
search?

He thought. Bad ideas came to him. He went out.

He went straight to a chemist's, and bought a small quantity of a
certain powder. This powder, harmless in its after-effects, would cause
very sound slumber. He brought in, and contrived, unseen by anyone, to
mix it in the soup which the old grandmother was preparing for the
evening meal. All--Pericard, Toby--all should partake of this soup.
Then all would sleep soundly, and the field would be open for him; for
he, Anton, would be careful not to touch any.

He had made arrangements before with the old grandmother to have a
shake-down for the night in one of her rooms; from there it would be
perfectly easy to step into the little attic occupied by the children,
and secure the precious purse.

His plans were all laid to perfection, and when he saw six hungry
people and a dog partaking eagerly of good Mme. Pericard's really
nourishing soup, he became quite jocund in his glee.

An hour afterward the drugged food had taken effect. There was not a
sound in the attics. Anton waited yet another hour, then, stepping
softly in his stockinged feet, he entered the little room, where he
felt sure the hidden treasure awaited him.

He examined Joe first. The lad was so tired, and the effect of the drug
so potent, that Anton could even turn him over without disturbing his
slumbers. But, alas! feel as he would, there was no purse about
Joe--neither concealed about his person, nor hidden under his pillow,
was any trace of what Anton hoped and longed to find. Half a franc he
took, indeed, out of the lad's pocket--half a franc and a couple of
centimes; but that was all.

Anton had to own to himself that whoever had the purse, Joe had it not.

He went over to the next bed, and examined little Maurice. He even
turned Toby about.

Last of all, he approached where Cecile lay. Cecile, secure in her
perfect trust in the heavenly Guide, sure of the righteousness of her
great quest, was sleeping as such little ones sleep. Blessed dreams
were filling her peaceful slumbers, and there is no doubt that angels
were guarding her.

The purity of the white face on which the moon shone filled the bad man
who approached her with a kind of awe. He did not call the feeling that
possessed him by that name; nevertheless, he handled the child
reverently.

He felt under the pillow, he felt in the little frock. Ah! good and
clever Miss Smith! so thoroughly, so well had she done her work, that
no touch of hard metal came to Anton's fingers, no suspicion of the
money so close to him entered his head.

Having heard at Warren's Grove of a purse, it never occurred to him to
expect money in any other way. No trace of that Russia-leather purse
was to be found about Cecile. After nearly an hour spent in prowling
about, he had to leave the children's room discomfited; discomfited
truly, and also not wholly unpunished. For Toby, who had been a good
deal satisfied with rolls and morsels of butter, in the feast made
earlier in the day by Pericard, had taken so sparingly of the soup that
he was very slightly drugged, and Anton's movements, becoming less
cautious as he perceived how heavy was the sleep over the children, at
last managed to wake the dog. What instinct was over Toby I know not.
But he hated Anton. He now followed him unperceived from the room, and,
just as he got into the passage outside, managed to insert his strong
teeth deep into his leg. The pain was sharp and terrible, and the thief
dared not scream. He hit Toby a blow, but not a very hard one, for the
dog was exactly behind him. Toby held on for a moment or two,
ascertained that the wound was both deep and painful, then retreated to
take up his post by Cecile's pillow. Nor did the faithful creature
close his eyes again that night. Anton, too, lay awake. Angry and
burning were his revengeful thoughts. He was more determined than ever
to find the purse, not to let his victims escape him. As to Toby, he
would kill him if he could. There seemed little doubt now that the
children had not the purse with them. Still Anton remembered Joe's
confused manner when he had sounded him on the subject of money. Anton
felt sure that Joe knew where the purse was. How could he force his
secret from the lad? How could he make him declare where the gold was
hidden? A specious, plausible man, Anton had, as I before said, made
friends with Joe. Joe in a moment of ill-advised confidence had told to
Anton his own sad history. Anton pondering over it now in the darkness,
for there was no moon shining into _his_ bedroom, felt that he could
secure a very strong hold over the lad.

Joe had been apprenticed to a Frenchman, who taught him to dance and
play the fiddle. Anton wondered what the law bound these apprentices
to. He had a hazy idea that, if they ran away, the punishment was
severe. He hoped that Joe had broken the law. Anton resolved to learn
more about these apprentice laws. For this purpose he rose very early
in the morning and went out. He was absent for about two hours. When he
returned he had learned enough to make up a bad and frightening tale.
Truly his old plans had been defeated in the night. But in the morning
he had made even worse than these. He came in to find the children
awakening from the effects of their long slumber, and Joe audibly
lamenting that they were not already on their way.

"Not yet," said Anton, suddenly dropping his French and speaking to the
astonished children in English as good as their own, "I have a word to
say about that same going away. You come out with me for a bit, my lad."

Joe, still heavy from the drug, and too amazed to refuse, even if he
wished to do so, stumbled to his feet and obeyed.

Cecile and Maurice chatted over the wonderful fact of Anton knowing
English, and waited patiently. There was no Pericard to amuse them
to-day; he had gone out long ago. They waited one hour--two
hours--three hours, still no Joe appeared. At the end of about four
hours there was a languid step on the stairs, and the lad who had gone
away--God knows with how tranquil a heart--reappeared.

Where was his gayety? Where had the light in his dark eyes vanished to?
His hands trembled. Fear was manifest on his face. He came straight up
to Cecile, and clasping her little hands between both his own, which
trembled violently, spoke.

"Oh, Cecile! he's a bad man. He's a bad, bad man, and I am ruined.
We're all ruined, Cecile. Is there any place we can hide in--is there
any place? I must speak to you, and he'll be back in half an hour. I
must speak to you, Cecile, before he comes back."

"Let's run away," said Cecile promptly. "Let's run away at once before
he comes again. There must be lots of hiding places in Paris. Oh!
here's Pericard. Pericard, I know, is faithful. You ask Pericard to
hide us, Joe. To hide us at once before Anton comes back."

CHAPTER XIV.

A PLAN.

Cecile, impelled by some instinct, had said: "I know Pericard is
faithful."

Joe, now turning to the French boy, repeated these few words in his
best French:

"She says she knows you are faithful. We are in great danger--in great
danger from that bad man Anton. Will you hide us and not betray us?"

To this appeal Cecile had added power by coming up and taking
Pericard's hand. He gave a look of devotion to his little princess,
nodded to Joe, and, bidding them all follow him, and quickly, left the
room.

Down the stairs he took the children, down, down, down! at last they
reached the cellars. The cellars, too, were full of human beings; but
interested in their own most varied pursuits and callings, they took
little notice of the children. They went through one set of cellars,
then through another, then through a third. At the third Pericard
stopped.

"You are safe here," he said. "These cellars have nothing to say to our
house. No one lives in them. They are to be let next week. They are
empty now. You will only have the company of the rats here. Don't be
afraid of them. If you don't fight them they won't come nigh you, and,
anyhow, Toby will keep 'em away. I'll be back when it grows dark. Don't
stir till I return. Anton shan't find you here. Little Miss is right.
Pericard will be faithful."

After having delivered this little speech in French, Pericard turned a
rusty key in a lock behind the children, then let himself out by an
underground passage directly into the street.

"Now, Joe," said Cecile, coming up at once to where the poor boy was
standing, "we are safe here, safe for a little. What is the matter?
What is wrong, dear Joe?"

"Maurice must not hear," said Joe; "it will only make things still
harder if little Maurice hears what I have got to say."

"Maurice will not care to hear. See, how sleepy he looks? There is some
straw in that corner, some nice clean straw; Maurice shall lie down on
it, and go to sleep. I can't make out why we are all so sleepy; but
Maurice shall have a good sleep, and then you can talk to me. Toby will
stay close to Maurice."

To this arrangement Maurice himself made no objection. He could
scarcely keep his eyes open, and the moment he found himself on the bed
of straw was sound asleep.

Toby, in obedience to Cecile's summons, sat down by his side, and then
the little girl returned to Joe.

"No one can hear us now. What is wrong, Jography?"

"This is wrong," said Joe, in a low, despairing voice: "I'm a ruined
lad. Ef I don't rob you, and become a thief, I'm a quite ruined lad.
I'll never, never see my mother nor my brother Jean. I'm quite ruined,
Missie, dear."

"But how, Joe. How?"

"Missie, that man wot come wid us all the way from Normandy, he's a spy
and a thief. He wants yer purse, Missie, darling, and he says as he'll
get it come what may. He wor at that farm in Kent when you was there,
and he heard all about the purse, and he wor determined to get it. That
wor why he tried to make friends wid us, and would not let out as he
knew a word of English. Then last night he put some'ut in the soup to
make us hall sleep sound, and he looked for the purse and he could not
find it; and this morning he called me away, to say as he knows my old
master wot I served in Lunnon, and that I wor apprenticed quite proper
to him, and that by the law I could not run away without being
punished. He said, Anton did, that he would lock me hup in prison this
werry day, and then go and find Massenger, and give me back to him. I
am never, never to see my old mother now. For I'm to go to prison if I
don't give up yer purse to Anton, Missie."

"But you would not take the Russia-leather purse that I was given to
take care of for Lovedy? You would rather be shut up in prison than
touch my purse or gold?" said Cecile.

It was nearly dark in the cellar; but the child's eyes shining with a
steadfast light, were looking full at Joe. He returned their gaze as
steadfastly.

"Missie, dear, 'tis a hard thing to give up seeking of yer own mother,
and to go back to blows and starvation. But Joe 'ull do it. He once
said, Missie Cecile, that he'd rayther be cut in pieces nor touch that
purse o' gold. This is like being cut in pieces. But I'll stand up to
wot I said. I'll go wid Anton when he comes back. But wot puzzles me
is, how he'll get the purse from you, Missie? and how ere you two
little mites ever to find Lovedy without your Joe to guide yer?"

"Yes, Joe, you shall guide us; for now I have got something to
say--such a wonderful, wonderful thing, Joe dear."

Then Cecile related all about her strange dream, all about Pericard
taking them to the Faubourg St. G----, then of her finding Miss Smith,
of her intrusting the purse to Miss Smith, and finally of the clever,
clever manner in which Miss Smith had sewn the money that was necessary
to take them to the south of France into her little winsey frock. All
this did Cecile tell with glowing cheeks and eager voice, and only one
mistake did she make. For, trusting Joe fully, she showed him the
little piece of paper which anyone presenting to Miss Smith could
obtain the purse in exchange.

Poor Joe! he bitterly rued that knowledge by and by, but now his
feelings were all thankfulness.

"Then Anton can't get the purse: you ha'n't got it to give to him!"

"No; and if he comes and finds us, I will tell him so my own self; it
won't do him no good putting you in prison, for he shan't never get
Lovedy's purse."

"Thank God," said Joe, in a tone of deep and great relief. "Oh! Missie,
that's a good, good guide o' your'n, and poor Joe 'ull love Him now."

"Yes, Jography, was it not lovely, lovely of Him? I know He means you
to go on taking care of us little children; and, Jography, I'm only
quite a little girl, but I've got a plan in my head, and you must
listen. My Aunt Lydia wanted to get the purse; and me and Maurice, we
ran away from her and afterward we saw her again in London, and she
wanted our purse we were sure, and then we ran away again. Now, Joe,
could not we run away this time too? Why should we see that wicked,
wicked Anton any more?"

"Yes, Missie, but he's werry clever; werry clever indeed, Anton is, and
he 'ud foller of us; he knows 'tis down south we're going, and he'd
come down south too."

"Yes; but, Joe, perhaps south is a big place, as big as London or
Paris, it might not be so easy for him to find us; you might get safe
back to your old mother and your good brother Jean, and I might see
Lovedy before Anton had found us again, then we should not care what he
did; and, Jography, what I've been thinking is that as we're in great
danger, it can't be wrong to spend just a franc or two out of my winsey
frock on you, and when Pericard comes back this evening I'll ask him to
direct us to some place where a train can take us all a good bit of the
way. You don't know how fast the train took me and Maurice and Toby to
London, and perhaps it would take us a good bit of the way south so
that Anton could not find us; that is my plan, Joe, and you won't have
to go to prison, Joe, dear."

CHAPTER XV.

AN ESCAPE.

It was very late, in fact quite night, when Pericard returned. By this
time the rats had come out in troops, and even Toby could scarcely keep
them at bay. He barked, however, loudly, and ran about, and so kept
them from absolutely attacking the children. By this, however, he
exposed them to another danger, for his noise must soon have been heard
in the street above, and it was well for them that the cellar in which
they were hiding was not in the same house with Anton.

It was, as I said, quite late at night when Pericard arrived. He let
himself in, not by the entrance through which he had come previously,
but by the underground passage. He carried a dark lantern in one hand,
and a neat little basket in the other. Never was knight of old more
eagerly welcomed than was this French boy now by the poor little
prisoners. They were all cold and hungry, and the rushing and scraping
of the rats had filled their little hearts with most natural alarm.

Pericard came in softly, and laying down his dark lantern proceeded to
unpack the contents of the basket. It contained cold sausages, broken
bits of meat, and some rolls buttered and cut in two: there was also a
pint bottle of _vin ordinaire_.

Pericard broke the neck of the bottle on the cellar wall. He then gave
the children a drink by turns in a little tin mug.

"And now," he said in French, "we must be off. Anton is in the house;
he is waiting for you all; he is roaring with anger and rage; he would
be out looking for you, but luckily--or you could not escape--he is
lame. The brave good dog bit him severely in the leg, and now he cannot
walk; and the grandmere has to poultice his leg. He thinks I have gone
to fetch you, for I pretend to be on his side. You have just to-night
to get away in; but I don't answer for the morning, for Anton is so
dying to get hold of Joe there that he will use his leg, however he
suffers, after to-night. You have just this one short night in which to
make your escape."

Then Joe told Cecile's plan to Pericard, and Pericard nodded, and said
it was good--only he could not help opening his eyes very widely at the
idea of three such little beggars, as he termed the children, being
able to afford the luxury of going by train. As, however, it was
impossible and, dangerous to confide in him any further, and as Cecile
had already given Joe the number of francs they thought they should
require out of her frock, he had to bear his curiosity in silence.

Pericard, who was well up to Paris, and knew not only every place of
amusement, nearly every stall-owner, nearly every trade, and every
possible way of securing a sou, but also had in his head a fund of odd
knowledge with regard to railway stations, could now counsel the
children what station to go to, and even what train to take on their
way south.

He said they would probably be in time if they started at once to catch
a midnight train to Orleans; that for not too large a sum they might
travel third-class to Orleans, which city they would reach the next
morning. It was a large place, and as it would be impossible for Anton
to guess that they had gone by train at all, they would have such a
good start of him that he would probably not be able to find them again.

Pericard also proposed that they should start at once, and as they had
no money to spare for cabs or omnibuses, they must walk to the distant
terminus from which they must start for the south. How strange they
felt as they walked through the gayly-lighted streets! How tired was
Maurice! how delighted Joe! how dreamy and yet calm and trustful, was
Cecile. Since the vision about her purse, her absolute belief in her
Guide knew no bounds.

As near and dear, as certain and present, was He now to Cecile as if in
reality he was holding her little hand; as if in reality He was
carrying tired Maurice. He was there, the Goal was certain, the End
sure. When they got to the great big terminus she still felt dreamlike,
allowing Joe and Pericard to get their tickets and make all
arrangements. Then the children and dog found themselves in a
third-class compartment. Toby was well and skillfully hidden under the
seat, the whistle sounded, and Pericard came close and took Cecile's
hand. She was only a little child, but she was his princess, the first
sweet and lovely thing he had ever seen. Cecile raised her lips to kiss
him.

"Good-by, Pericard--good Pericard--faithful Pericard."

Then the train pulled slowly out of the station, and the children were
carried into the unknown darkness, and Pericard went home. He never saw
the children again. But all through his after-life he carried a memory
about with him of them, and when he heard of the good God and the
angels, this wild Paris lad would cross himself devoutly, and think of
Cecile.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHILDREN'S ARCADIA.

It was early spring in the south of France--spring, and delicious,
balmy weather. All that dreadful cold of Normandy seemed like a
forgotten dream. It was almost impossible to believe that the limbs
that ached under that freezing atmosphere could be the same that now
felt the sun almost oppressive.

Little Maurice had the desire of his heart, for the sun shone all day
long. He could pick flowers and smell sweet country air, and the boy
born under these sunny skies revived like a tropical plant beneath
their influence. It was a month now since the children had left Paris.
They had remained for a day or so in Orleans, and then had wandered on,
going farther and farther south, until at last they had passed the
great seaport town of Bordeaux, and found themselves in the monotonous
forests of the Landes. The scenery was not pretty here. The ground was
flat, and for miles and miles around them swept an interminable growth
of fir trees, each tall and straight, many having their bark pierced,
and with small tin vessels fastened round their trunks to catch the
turpentine which oozed slowly out. These trees, planted in long
straight rows, and occupying whole leagues of country, would have been
wearisome to eyes less occupied, to hearts less full, than those that
looked out of the faces and beat in the breasts of the children who on
foot still pursued their march. For in this forest Cecile's heart had
revived. Before she reached Bordeaux she often had felt her hope
fading. She had believed that her desire could never be accomplished,
for, inquire as they would, they could get in none of the towns or
villages they passed through any tidings of Lovedy. No one knew
anything of an English girl in the least answering to her description.
Many smiled almost pityingly on the eager little seekers, and thought
the children a trifle mad to venture on so hopeless a search.

But here, in the Landes, were villages innumerable--small villages,
sunny and peaceful, where simple and kind-hearted folks lived, and
barndoor-fowl strutted about happily, and the goats browsed, and sheep
fed; and the people in these tiny villages were very kind to the little
pilgrims, and gave them food and shelter gladly and cheerfully, and
answered all the questions which Cecile put through her interpreter,
Joe, about Lovedy. Though there were no tidings of the blue-eyed girl
who had half-broken her mother's heart, Cecile felt that here surely,
or in some such place as here, she should find Lovedy, for were not
these exactly the villages her stepmother had described when she lay
a-dying? So Cecile trudged on peacefully, and each day dawned with a
fresh desire. Joe, too, was happy; he had lost his fear of Anton. Anton
could never surely pursue him here. There was no danger now of his
being forced back to that old dreadful life. The hardships, the cold,
the beatings, the starvings, lay behind him; he was a French boy again.
Soon someone would call him by his old forgotten name of Alphonse, and
he should look into his mother's eyes, and then go out among the
vineyards with his brother Jean. Yes, Joe was very happy, he was loved
and he loved; he was useful, too, necessary indeed to the children; and
every day brought him nearer to his beloved Pyrenees. Once amongst
those mountains, he had a sort of idea that he soon should roll off
that seven years of London cruelty and defilement, and become a happy
and innocent child again.

Of course, Maurice was joyful in the Landes; he liked the south, it was
sunny and good, and he liked the kind peasant-women, who all petted the
pretty boy, and fed him on the freshest of eggs and richest of goat's
milk. But, perhaps, of all the little pilgrims, Toby was now the
happiest--the most absolutely contented. Not a cloud hung over Toby's
sky, not a care lingered in his mind.

He was useful too--indeed he was almost the breadwinner of the little
party. For Joe had at last taught Toby to dance, and to dance with
skill quite remarkable in a dog of his age. No one knew what Toby
suffered in learning that rather ponderous dance; how stiff his poor
legs felt, how weak his back, how hard he had to struggle to keep his
balance. But from the day that Joe had rescued the children in the
snow, Toby had become so absolutely his friend, had so completely
withdrawn the fear with which at first he had regarded him, that now,
for very love of Joe, he would do what he told him. He learned to
dance, and from the time the children left Bordeaux, he had really by
this one accomplishment supported the little party.

In the villages of the Landes the people were simple and innocent, they
cared very little about centimes, sous, or francs; but they cared a
great deal about amusement; and when Joe played his fiddle and Toby
danced, they were so delighted, and so thoroughly enjoyed the sport,
that in return they gave supper, bed, and breakfast to the whole party
free of charge.

Thus Cecile's winsey frock still contained a great many francs put away
toward a rainy day; for, since they entered the Landes, the children
not only spent nothing, but lived better than they had ever done before.

Thus the days went on, and it all seemed very Arcadian and very
peaceful, and no one guessed that a serpent could possibly come into so
fair and innocent an Eden.

CHAPTER XVII.

MAURICE TAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF AFFAIRS.

After many weeks of wandering about, the children found themselves in a
little village, about three miles from the town of Arcachon. This
village was in the midst of a forest covering many thousand acres of
land. They had avoided the seaport town of Arcachon, dreading its
fashionable appearance; but they hailed the little village with delight.

It was a pretty place, peaceful and sunny; and here the people
cultivated their vines and fruit trees, and lived, the poorer folks
quite in the village, the better-off inhabitants in neat farmhouses
close by. These farmhouses were in the midst of fields, with cattle
browsing in the meadows.

Altogether, the village was the most civilized-looking place the
children had stopped at since they entered what had been a few years
ago the dreary desert of the Landes. Strange to say, however, here, for
the first time, the weary little pilgrims met with a cold reception.
The people in the village of Moulleau did not care for boys who played
the fiddle, and dogs that tried clumsily to accompany it. They looked
with a fine lack of sympathy at Cecile's pathetic blue eyes, and
Maurice was nothing more to them than a rather dirty little sunburnt
boy.

One or two of the inns even refused the children a night's lodging for
money, and so disagreeable did those that did take them in make
themselves that after the first night Cecile and Joe determined to
sleep in the forest close by. it was now April, the weather was
delicious, and in the forest of pines and oak trees not a breath of
wind ever seemed to enter. Joe, looking round, found an old tumbledown
hut. In the hut was a pile of dry pine needles. These pine needles made
a much snugger bed than they had found in a rather dirty inn in the
village; and, still greater an advantage, they could use this pleasant
accommodation free of all charge.

It was, indeed, necessary to economize, for the francs sewn into the
winsey frock would come to an end by and by.

The children found to their dismay that they had by no means taken a
direct road to the Pyrenees, but had wandered about, and had been
misdirected many times.

There was one reason, however, which induced Cecile to stay for a few
days in the forest close to the village of Moulleau.

This was the reason: Amongst the many sunny farms around, was one, the
smallest there, but built on a slight eminence, and resembling in some
slight and vague way, not so much its neighbors, as the low-roofed,
many-thatched English farmhouse of Warren's Grove. Cecile felt
fascinated by this farm with its English frontage. She could not
explain either her hopes or her fears with regard to it. But an
unaccountable desire was over her to remain in the forest for a short
time before they proceeded on their journey.

"Let us rest here just one day longer," she would plead in her gentle
way; and Joe, though seeing no reason for what seemed like unnecessary
delay, nevertheless yielded to her demand.

He was not idle himself. As neither fiddling nor dancing seemed to pay,
he determined to earn money in some other manner; so, as there were
quantities of fir cones in the forests, he collected great piles and
took them into Arcachon for sale.

While Joe was away, sometimes accompanied by Maurice, sometimes alone,
Cecile would yield to that queer fascination, which seemed
unaccountable, and wander silently, and yet with a certain anxiety to
the borders of that English-looking farm.

Never did she dare to venture within its precincts. But she would come
to the edge of the paling which divided its rich meadows from the road,
and watch the cattle browsing, and the cocks, and hens, and ducks and
geese, going in and out, with wistful and longing eyes.

Once, from under the low and pretty porch, she saw a child run eagerly,
with shouts of laughter. This child, aged about two, had golden hair
and a fair skin. Cecile had seen no child like him in the village. He
Looked like an English boy. How did he and that English-looking farm
get into the sequestered forest of the Landes?

After seeing the child, Cecile went back to her hut, sat down on the
pine needles, and began to think.

Never yet had she obtained the faintest clew to her search.

Looking everywhere for blue eyes and golden hair, it seemed to Cecile
that such things had faded from the earth. And now! but no, what would
bring the English girl Lovedy there?

Why should Lovedy be at Moulleau more than at any other village in the
Landes? and in any case what had the English-looking child to say to
Lovedy?

Cecile determined to put any vague hopes out of her head. They must
leave Moulleau the next morning; that she had promised Joe. Whenever
Lovedy did come across their path, she would come in very different
guise. But still, try as she would, Cecile's thoughts returned over and
over again to the golden-haired laddie, and these thoughts, which came
almost against her will, might have led to results which would have
quickly solved her difficulties, but for an event which occurred just
then.

This event, terrible and anxious, put all remembrance of the English
farm and English child far from her mind.

Joe had made rather a good day at Arcachon selling his pine cones; and
Maurice, who had gone with him, and had tried in his baby fashion to
help him, had returned to the hut very tired, and so sleepy that, after
eating a little bread and fruit, he lay down on the pine needles and
went sound asleep. Generally tired and healthy, little Maurice slept
without moving until the morning. But this night, contrary to his wont,
he found himself broad awake before Cecile or Joe had lain down. Joe, a
lighted fir cone in his hand, which he carefully guarded from the dry
pine needles, was sitting close to Cecile, who was reading aloud to him
out of the Testament which Mrs. Moseley had given to her. Cecile read
aloud to Joe every night, and this time her solemn little voice
stumbled slowly over the words, "He that loveth father or mother more
than Me is not worthy of Me."

"I think as that is a bit hard," interrupted Joe. "I wonder ef Jesus
could tell wot a hankering a feller has fur his mother when he ain't
seen her fur seven years? Why, Miss Cecile, I'm real starved fur my
mother. I dreams of her hevery night, and I feels as tho' we 'ud never,
never get back to the dear blue mountains again. No," continued Joe,
shaking his dark head, "I never, never could love Jesus better nor my
mother."

"I don't remember my mother," said Cecile; "and I think I love Jesus
the Guide even better than I love Maurice. But oh, Joe, I'm a selfish
little girl. I ought not to stay on here when you want to see your
mother so very badly. We will start to your mountains quite, quite
early in the morning, Joe."

"Thank yer, Missie," said Joe, with a very bright smile; and then,
having put the pine carefully out, the two children also lay down to
sleep.

But little Maurice, who had heard every word, was still quite wide
awake. Maurice, who loved his forest life, and who quite hated these
long and enforced marches, felt very cross. Why should they begin to
walk again? _He_ had no interest in these long and interminable
rambles. How often his feet used to ache! How blistered they often
were! And now that the weather was so warm and sunny, little Maurice
got tired even sooner than in the winter's cold. No; what he loved was
lying about under the pine trees, and watching the turpentine trickling
very slowly into the tin vessels fastened to their trunks; and then he
liked to look at the squirrels darting merrily from bough to bough, and
the rabbits running about, and the birds flying here and there. This
was the life Maurice loved. This was south. Cecile had always told him
they were going south. Well, was not this south, this pleasant, balmy
forest-land. What did they want with anything further? Maurice
reflected with dismay over the tidings that they were to leave quite
early in the morning. He felt inclined to cry, to wake Cecile, to get
her to promise not to go. Suddenly an idea, and what he considered
quite a brilliant idea, entered his baby mind. Cecile and Joe had
arranged to commence their march quite early in the morning.
Suppose--suppose he, Maurice, slipped softly from the old hut and hid
himself in the forest. Why, then, they would not go; they would never
dream of leaving Maurice behind. He could come back to them when the
sun was high in the heavens; and then Joe would pronounce it too hot to
go on any journey that day. Thus he would secure another long day in
his beloved woods.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN OGRE IN THE WOOD.

Full of his idea, Maurice slept very little more that night. He tossed
from side to side on the pine needles. But though he felt often drowsy,
he was afraid to yield to the sensation; and early, very early in the
morning, before the sun had risen, he got up. Going to the door of the
hut, he stood there for a moment or so looking down into the forest.
Just around the little hut there was a clearing of trees; but the
forest itself looked dark. The trees cast long shadows, and Maurice
felt rather nervous at the idea of venturing into their gloom.
Suddenly, however, he heard a bird sing clear and sweet up into the
sky, and the next moment two squirrels darted past his feet.

These two events decided him: the day was coming on apace, and soon
Cecile and Joe would wake and begin to prepare for their journey.
Without waiting to look around, he stepped into the dark shadows of the
trees; and, in a moment, his little figure was lost in the gloom. To
enable him to creep very quietly away--so quietly that even Toby should
not awake--he had decided not to put on his shoes and stockings, and he
now ran along the grass with his bare feet. He liked the sensation. The
grass felt both cool and soft, and he began to wonder why he had ever
troubled himself with such clumsy, tiresome things as shoes and
stockings.

The sun had now risen, and the forest was no longer dark; and Maurice,
looking back, saw that he had quite lost sight of the hut. He also, at
the same moment, discovered, growing in great clusters, almost at his
feet, dog violets, some as large as heart's-ease.

He gave a little cry of delight. He was very fond of flowers, and he
decided to pick a great bunch to bring back to Cecile; in case she was
a little vexed with him, she would be sure to be pacified by this
offering.

He therefore sat down on the grass, and picked away at the violets
until he had filled both his hands.

Then hearing, or fancying he heard, a little rustling in the grass, and
thinking it might be Joe coming in search of him, he set off running
again.

This time he was not so fortunate. A great thorn found its way into the
little naked foot; the poor child gave a cry of pain, then sat plump
down; he found that he could not walk another step. The day had now
fully come, and the forest was alive with sights and sounds. Maurice
was too young, too much of a baby to feel at all frightened. The idea
of getting lost never even occurred to him. He said to himself that, as
he could not possibly walk on his lame and swollen foot, he would wait
quietly where he had planted himself, until Cecile or Joe or Toby found
him out.

This quiet waiting resulted, as might have been expected, in the little
fellow making up for the night's wakefulness, and soon he was sound
asleep, his pretty head resting on his violets.

For several hours tired little Maurice slept. When at last he opened
his eyes, a man was sitting by his side.

He looked at him for a moment sleepily and peacefully out of his velvet
brown eyes; then sitting up, he exclaimed in a tone of joyful
recognition:

"Anton!"

Anton--for it was indeed he--looked into the innocent face with his own
guilty one, then nodded in the affirmative.

Maurice, having no idea of fearing Anton, knowing nothing about the
purse of gold, and being on the whole rather prepossessed in his favor
than otherwise, exclaimed:

"How did you come, Anton? did you find Cecile and Joe, and did they
send you for me? and have I slept a long, long time, Anton? It is quite
too late to begin a journey to-day?"

"'Tis about noon, lad," replied Anton; "quite the hottest time of the
day; and I have not seen no Joe, nor no Cecile, though I wants to see
'em; I ha' been a-looking fur 'em ever since they turned tail in that
shabby way in Paris. I has a little debt to settle wid 'em two, and I'd
like to see 'em again."

"Oh! do you owe them money, and will you pay it? I am sure they'll be
glad for that, for sometimes I hear Cecile say that she is afraid their
money won't hold out, the journey is so very long. I am glad you owe
'em money, Anton; and as it is past noon, and they won't start to-day,
we may as well go back to the hut at once. Oh! won't they be surprised
ta see you, Anton?"

Anton remained silent for a moment, his head buried in his hands. He
was evidently thinking hard, and once he was heard to mutter, "a lucky
chance; a rare and lucky chance." Then he raised his head again and
looked at Maurice.

"The others are in a hut, a hut in the forest, eh?"

"Oh, yes! quite a nice, snug little hut, and not so very far from here.
We sleep on pine needles in the hut, and they are so soft and snug;
and, Anton, I don't want to leave it. I like the forest, and I hate
long, long walks; I'd rather stay in the hut."

"How far away did you say it wor, lad?"

"Oh! not so very far away. I ran out quite early this morning, and I
came down hill; and at last when I lost breath I stopped and gathered
all these violets. Oh, they are withered--my poor violets! And then I
ran a little bit and got this thorn into my foot, and after that I
could walk no more. The hut can't be a great way off. Will you carry me
back to it, Anton?"

Anton laughed.

"'Will I carry him?' did he say?" he exclaimed in a tone of some
derision. "Well, wot next? I ain't strong enough to carry sech a big
chap as you, my lad. No, no; but I'll tell you wot I'll do: I'll take
you over to a comrade o' mine as is waiting for me jest outside the
forest, quite close by. He's a bit of a doctor, and he'll take the
thorn out of your foot; and while he's doing it, I'll run down to the
hut and bring that big Joe o' yourn back. He'll carry you fine--he
ain't a weakly chap like me."

"Poor Anton!" said little Maurice, "I forgot that you were weak. Yes,
that's a very kind plan." And he stretched out his arms for Anton to
carry him just the little distance to his comrade at the other side of
the forest.

CHAPTER XIX.

THREE PLANS.

It took Anton but a few strides to get out of the forest, at the other
side away from the hut. Here, on a neatly-made road, stood a caravan;
and by the side of the caravan two men. These men could not speak a
word of English, and even their French was so mixed with dialect that
little Maurice, who by this time knew many words of real French, did
not understand a word they said. This, however, all the better suited
Anton's purpose. He had a short but impressive conversation with the
man who seemed to have the greatest authority. Maurice was then given
over into this man's care. Anton assured him that he would return as
quickly as possible with Joe. And then the bad man plunged once more
into the depths of the forest.

Yes; Anton was most truly a bad man, and bad now were the schemes at
work in his evil heart. He saw once more a hope of getting that money
which he longed for. He would use any means to obtain this end. After
the children had escaped from him in Paris, he had wandered about for
nearly a week in that capital looking for them. Then he had agreed to
join a traveling caravan which was going down south. Anton could assist
in the entertainments given in the different small towns and villages
they passed through; but this mode of proceeding was necessarily slow,
and seemed all the more so as week after week went by and he never got
a clew to the lost children; he was beginning to give it up as a bad
job--to conclude that Cecile and her party had never gone south after
all. He had indeed all but completed arrangements to return to Paris
with another traveling party, when suddenly, wandering through the
forest in the early morning, he came upon little Maurice D'Albert fast
asleep--his crushed violets under his pretty head. Transfixed with joy
and astonishment, the bad man stood still. His game was sure--it had
not escaped him.

He sat down by the child. He did not care to wake him. While Maurice
slept he made his plans.

And now, having given over Maurice to the owner of the caravan, with
strict directions not to let him escape, he was hurrying through the
forest to meet Joe. He wanted to see Joe alone. It would by no means
answer his purpose to come across Cecile or even indeed at present to
let Cecile know anything about his near vicinity.

Little Maurice's directions had been simple enough, and soon Anton came
in sight of the hut. He did not want to come any nearer. He sat down
behind an oak tree, and waited. From where he sat, he could watch the
entrance to the hut, but could not himself be seen.

Presently he saw Cecile and Joe come out. Toby also stood at their
heels. Cecile and Joe appeared to be consulting anxiously. At last they
seemed to have come to a conclusion; Cecile and Toby went one way, and
Joe another.

Anton saw with delight that everything was turning out according to his
best hopes; Cecile and Toby were going toward the village, while Joe
wandered in his direction. He waited only long enough to see the little
girl and the dog out of sight, then, rising from the ground, he
approached Joe.

The poor boy was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground. He
seemed anxious and preoccupied. In truth he was thinking with
considerable alarm of little Maurice. Anton came very close, they were
almost face to face before Joe saw him.

When at last their eyes did meet Anton perceived with delight that the
boy's face went very white, that his lips twitched, and that he
suddenly leant against a tree to support himself. These signs of fear
were most agreeable to the wicked man. He felt that in a very short
time the purse would be his.

"Anton," said poor Joe, when he could force any words from his
trembling lips.

"Aye, Anton," echoed the man with a taunting laugh, "you seems mighty
pleased to see Anton, old chap. You looks rare and gratified, eh?"

"No, Anton, I'm dreadful, dreadful pained to see you," answered Joe. "I
wor in great trouble a minute ago, but it ain't nothink to the trouble
o' seeing you."

Anton laughed again.

"You ere an unceevil lad," he replied, "but strange as it may seem, I'm
glad as you is sorry to see me, boy; it shows as you fears me; as you
is guilty, as well you may think yerself, and you knows as Anton can
bring yer to justice. You shall fear me more afore you has done, Master
Joe. You 'scaped me afore, but there's no escape this time. We has a
few words to say to each other, but the principal thing is as there's
no escape this time, young master."

"I know," answered Joe, "I know as a man like you can have no
mercy--never a bit."

"There's no good a-hangering of me wid those speeches, Joe; I ha' found
you, and I means to get wot I can out o' you. And now jest tell me
afore we goes any further wot you was a-doing, and why you looked so
misribble afore I spoke to you that time."

"Oh!" said Joe, suddenly recalled to another anxiety by these words,
"wot a fool I am to stay talking to you when there ain't a moment to
spare. Little Maurice is lost. I'm terrible feared as little Maurice
has quite strayed away and got lost, and here am I, a-standing talking
to you when there ain't one moment to lose. Ef you won't leave me, you
must come along wid me, fur I'm a-looking fur little Maurice."

Joe now prepared to start forward, though his brain was still so
perturbed at this sudden vision of his enemy that he scarcely knew
where he was going, or in what direction to direct his steps. In a
couple of strides Anton overtook him.

"You ha' no call to fash about the little chap," he said; "and there
ain't no use a-looking fur him, fur I have got him."

"You have got little Maurice?" said Joe. "You have stole little Maurice
away from Cecile and me?"

"I found little Maurice asleep in the wood. I have him safe. You can
have him back whenever you pleases."

"I must have little Maurice. Take me to him at once," said Joe in a
desperate tone.

"Softly, softly, lad! You shall have the little chap back. No harm
shall happen to him. You and the little gal can have him again. Only
one thing: I must have that ere purse first."

"Oh! ain't you a wicked man?" said Joe, and now he flung himself full
length on the grass, and burst into bitter lamentations. "Oh! ain't you
the wickedest man in all the wide world, Anton? Cecile 'ull die ef she
can't get little Maurice back again. Cecile 'ull die ef she loses that
purse."

Joe repeated these words over many times; in truth the poor boy was
almost in a transport of grief and despair. Anton, however, made no
reply whatever to this great burst of terrible sorrow, and waited
quietly until the paroxysm had spent itself, then he too sat down on
the grass.

"Listen, Joe," he said. "'Tis no use a-blubbering afore me, or
a-screaming hout afore me. Them things affects some folks, but they
never takes no rises out o' me. I may be 'ard. Likely enough I am.
Hanyhow hysterics don't go down with me. Joe Barnes--as that's the name
wot you was known by in England--I'm _determined_ to get that 'ere
purse. Now listen. Wot I has to say is short; wot I has to say is
plain; from wot I has now got to say--I'll never go back. I lay three
plans afore you, Joe Barnes. You can choose wot one you like best. The
first plan is this: as you and Cecile keeps the purse, and I takes
Maurice away wid me; you never see Maurice, nor hears of him again; I
sell him to yer old master whose address I has in my pocket. That's the
first plan. The second plan is this: that Maurice comes back to his
sister, and _you_ comes wid me, Joe. I sells you once more to yer hold
master, and he keeps yer _tight_, and you has no more chance of running
away. This seems a sensible plan, and that 'ere little Cecile, as you
sets sech store by, can keep her purse and her brother too. Ef you does
this, Joe Barnes, there'll be no fear of Cecile dying--that's my second
plan. But the third plan's the best of all. You can get that 'ere purse
of gold. You get it, or tell me where to find it, and then you shall
have Maurice back. Within one hour Maurice shall be with you, and you
shall stay wid Cecile and Maurice, and I'll never, never trouble you no
more. I calls the last the neatest plan of all, lad. Don't you?"

Joe said nothing; his head was buried in his hands. Anton, however, saw
that he was listening.

"The last is the sensible plan," he said; and he laid his hand on the
lad's shoulder.

Joe started as though an adder had stung him. He threw off the defiling
hand, and moved some paces away.

"There ere the others," continued Anton. "There's the little chap
a-being beat and starved in London, and his little heart being hall
a-broken hup. Or _you_ can go back to the hold life, Joe Barnes; you're
elder, and can bear it better. Yer head is tough by now, I guess; a big
blow on it won't hurt you much; and you'll never see yer old mother or
yer brother--but never mind. Yer whole life will be spent in utter
misery--still, never mind, that ere dirty purse is safe; never mind
aught else."

"We han't got the purse," said Joe then, raising his haggard face.
"'Tis the gospel truth as I'm telling you, Anton. Cecile took the purse
to a lady in Paris to take care of fur her, and she is to keep it until
someone gives her a bit of paper back which she writ herself. I can't
give yer the purse, fur it ain't yere, Anton."

"The bit o' paper 'ull do; the bit o' paper wid the address of the
lady."

Joe groaned.

"I can't do it," he said. "I can't let Maurice go to sech a cruel
life--I can't, I can't! I _can't_ give hup the hope o' seeing my old
mother. I must see my old mother once again. And I can't steal Cecile's
purse. Oh! _wot shall I do_?"

"Look yere, lad," said Anton, more slowly and in a kinder tone, "you
think it hall well hover; one o' they three plans you must stick to.
Now I'm a-going away, but I'll be back yere to-morrow morning at four
o'clock fur my hanswer. You ha' it ready fur me then."

So saying Anton rose from the grass, and when Joe raised his face his
enemy was gone.

CHAPTER XX.

FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

It was night again, almost a summer's night, so still, so warm and
balmy, and in the little hut in the forest of the Landes two children
sat very close together; Cecile had bought a candle that day in the
village, and this candle, now well sheltered from any possible breeze,
was placed, lighted, in the broken-down door of the little hut. It was
Cecile's own idea, for she said to Joe that Maurice might come back in
the cool night-time, and this light would be sure to guide him. Joe had
lit the candle for the little girl, and secured it against any possible
overthrow. But as she did so he shook his head sorrowfully.

Seeing this Cecile reproved him.

"I know Maurice so well," explained the little sister. "He will sleep
for hours and hours, and then he will wake and gather flowers and think
himself quite close to us all the time. He will never know how time
passes, and then the night will come and he will be frightened and want
to come back to me and Toby; and when he is frightened this light will
guide him."

Joe knowing the truth and seeing how impossible it would be for Maurice
to return in the manner Cecile thought, could only groan under his
breath, for he dared not tell the truth to Cecile; and this was one of
the hardest parts of his present great trouble.

"Missie Cecile," he said, when he had lit the candle and seen that it
burned safely; "Missie, yer jest dead beat, you has never sat down,
looking fur the little chap the whole, whole day. I'm a great strong
fellow, I ain't tired a bit; but ef Missie 'ud lie down, maybe she'd
sleep, and I'll stay outside and watch fur little Maurice and take care
of the candle."

"But I'd rather watch, too, outside with you, Joe. I'm trying hard,
hard not to be anxious. But perhaps if I lie down the werry anxious
feel may come. Just let me sit by you, and put my head on your
shoulder; perhaps I shall rest so."

"Werry well, Missie," said Joe.

He seemed incapable of enforcing any arguments that night, and in a
moment or two the children, with faithful Toby at their feet, were
sitting just outside the hut, but where the light of the solitary
candle could fall on them. Cecile's head was on Joe's breast, and Joe's
strong arm encircled her.

After a long pause, he said in a husky voice:

"I'd like to hear that verse as Missie read to poor Joe last night. I'd
like to hear it once again."

"The last verse, Joe?" answered Cecile. "I think I know the last verse
by heart. It is this: 'He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is
not worthy of Me.'"

"My poor old mother," said Joe suddenly. "My poor, poor old mother."
Here he covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

"But, Joe," said little Cecile in a voice of surprise, "you will soon
see your mother now--very soon, I think and hope. As soon as we find
Maurice we will go to the Pyrenees, and there we shall see Lovedy and
your mother and your good brother Jean. Our little Maurice cannot stay
much longer away, and then we will start at once for the Pyrenees."

To this Joe made no answer, and Cecile, who had intended to remain
awake all night, in a few moments was asleep, tired out, with her head
now resting on Joe's knees.

He covered the pretty head tenderly with his great brown palm, and his
black eyes were full of the tenderest love and sorrow as they looked at
the little white face.

How could he protect the heart of the child he loved from a sorrow that
must break it? Only by sacrificing himself; by sacrificing himself
absolutely. Was he prepared to do this?

As he thought and Cecile slept, a great clock from the not far distant
village struck twelve. Twelve o'clock! In four hours now Anton would
return for his answer--what should it be?

To sacrifice Maurice--that would be impossible. Even for one instant to
contemplate sending little baby, spoiled Maurice to endure the life he
had led, to bear the blows, the cruel words, the starvations, the bad
company that he had endured would be utterly impossible. No; he could
not do that. He had long ago made up his mind that Maurice was to come
back.

The question now lay between the Russia-leather purse and himself.

Should he give everything up--his mother, his brother, the happy, happy
life that seemed so near--and go back to the old and dreadful fate?
Should he show in this way that he loved Christ more than his mother?
Was this the kind of sacrifice that Christ demanded at his hands? And
oh! how Joe did love his mother! All the cruel, hard, weary of his
captivity, his mother had lived green and fresh in his heart. Many and
many a night had he wet his wretched pillow with the thought of how
once he had lain in that mother's arms, and she had petted him and
showered love upon him. The memory of her face, of her love, of her
devotion, had kept him from doing the wrong things which the other boys
in the company had done; and now, when he might so soon see her, must
he give her up? He knew that if he once got back to his old master he
would take good care to keep him from running away again; if he put
himself at four o'clock in the morning into Anton's hands, _it would be
for life_. He might, when he was quite old and broken down by misery
and hardship, return to France; but what use would it be to him then,
when he had only his mother's grave to visit? He could escape all that;
he could go back to the Pyrenees; he could see his mother's face once
more. How? Simply by taking from Cecile a little piece of paper; by
taking it from her frock as she slept. And, after all, was this paper a
matter of life and death? Was it worth destroying the entire happiness
of a life? for Cecile might never find Lovedy. It was only a dream of
the little girl's, that Lovedy waited for her in the Pyrenees; there
might be no English girl hiding there! and even if there was, did she
want that forty pounds so badly? Must he sacrifice his whole life for
the sake of that forty pounds? Was it not a sacrifice too hard to
expect of any boy? True, he had given his word! he had told Cecile that
he would rather be cut in little bits than touch her purse of gold.
Yes, yes; but this lifelong suffering was worse than being cut in
pieces. "He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of
Me." How could he love this unknown Christ better than the mother from
whom he had been parted for seven long years?

After a time, worn out with his emotion, he dropped asleep. He had
thought to stay awake all night; but before the village clock had again
struck one, his head was dropped on his hands and he was sound asleep.

In his broken sleep he had one of those dreams which he dreaded. He saw
his mother ill and calling for him, weeping for him. A voice, he did
not know from where it sounded, kept repeating in his ear that his
mother was dying of a broken heart because of him; because she so
mourned the loss of her merry boy, she was passing into the silent
grave. The voice told him to make haste and go to his mother, not to
lose an instant away from her side. He awoke bathed in perspiration to
hear the village clock strike four. The hour, the hour of his fate had
come. Even now Anton waited for him. He had no time to lose, his dream
had decided him. He would go back at any cost to his mother. Softly he
put down his hand and removed the precious little bit of paper from the
bosom of Cecile's frock, then, lifting her head tenderly from his
knees, he carried her, still sleeping, into the hut, bade Toby watch by
her, and flung himself into the silent gloom of the forest.

CHAPTER XXI.

HARD TIMES FOR LITTLE MAURICE.

All that long and sunny day Maurice sat contentedly on a little stool
in the doorway of the traveling caravan. His foot, which had been very
painful, was now nicely and skillfully dressed. The Frenchman, who did
not know a word of English, had extracted a sharp and cruel thorn, and
the little boy, in his delight at being free from pain, thanked him in
the only way in his power. He gave him a very sweet baby kiss.

It so happened that the Frenchman had a wife and a little lad waiting
for him in the Pyrenees. Maurice reminded him of his own dark-eyed boy,
and this sudden kiss won his heart. He determined to be good to the
child. So first providing him with an excellent bowl of soup and a
fresh roll, for his breakfast and dinner combined, he then gave him a
seat in the door of the caravan, for he judged that as he could not
amuse the little fellow by talking to him, he might by letting him see
what he could of what was going on outside.

For a long time Maurice sat still, then he grew impatient. He was no
longer either in pain or sleepy, and he wanted to get home to Cecile;
he wanted to tell her his adventures, and to show her the violets which
he had gathered that morning, and which, though now quite dead and
withered, he still held in his little hot hand. Why did not Anton
return? What _was_ keeping Joe? It was no distance at all back to the
hut. Of this he was sure. Why, then, did not Joe come? He felt a little
cross as the hours went on, but it never even occurred to his baby mind
to be frightened.

It was late in the evening when Anton at last made his appearance, and
alone. Little Maurice sprang off his stool to meet him.

"Oh, Anton, what a time you've been! And where's Joe?"

"Joe ain't coming to-night, young 'un," said Anton roughly.

He entered the caravan with a weary step, and, throwing himself on a
settle, demanded some supper in French of his companion.

Maurice, unaccustomed to this mode of treatment, stood quite still for
a moment, then, brushing the tears from his big brown eyes, he went up
to Anton and touched his arm.

"See," he said, "I can walk now. Kind man there made my foot nearly
well. You need not carry me, Anton. But will you come back with me to
the hut after you've had some supper?"

"No, that I won't," answered Anton. "Not a step 'ull you get me to stir
again to-night. You sit down and don't bother."

"Cross, nasty man," replied Maurice passionately; "then I'll run away
by myself, I will. I can walk now."

He ran to the door of the caravan; of course it took Anton but a moment
to overtake him, to catch him by his arm, and, shaking him violently,
to lead him to an inner room, into which he flung the poor child,
telling him roughly that he had better stay quiet and make no fuss, or
it would be worse for him.

Little Maurice raised impotent hands, beating Anton with all his small
might. Anton laughed derisively. He turned the key on the angry and
aggrieved child and left him to his fate.

Poor little Maurice! It was his first real experience of the roughness
of life. Hitherto Cecile had come between him and all hard times;
hitherto, whatever hardships there were to bear, Cecile had borne them.
It seemed to be the natural law of life to little Maurice that everyone
should shield and shelter him.

He threw himself now on the dirty floor of the caravan and cried until
he could cry no longer. Oh, how he longed for Cecile! How he repented
of his foolish running away that morning! How he hated Anton! But in
vain were his tears and lamentations; no one came near him, and at last
from utter weariness he stopped.

It was dark now, quite dark in the tiny inner room where Anton had
thrust him. Strange to say, the darkness did not frighten the little
fellow; on the contrary, it soothed him. Night had really come. In the
night it was natural to lie still and sleep; when people were asleep
time passed quickly. Maurice would go to sleep, and then in the morning
surely, surely Joe and Cecile would find him and bring him home.

He lay down, curling himself up like a little dog, but tired as he was
he could not sleep--not at first. He was nothing but a baby boy, but he
had quite a retrospect or panorama passing before his eyes as he lay on
the dirty caravan floor. He saw the old court at home; he saw the
pretty farm of Warren's Grove; he saw that tiring day in London when it
seemed to both Cecile and himself that they should never anywhere get a
lodging for the night; then he was back again with kind, with dear Mrs.
Moseley, and she was telling to him and Cecile those lovely, those
charming stories about heaven.

"I always, always said as heaven would suit me better than South,"
sobbed the poor little boy. "I never did want to come South. I wished
Jesus the Guide to take me to heaven. Oh, I do want to go to heaven!"

Over and over he repeated this wish aloud in the darkness, and its very
utterance seemed to soothe him, for after a time he did really drop
asleep.

He had not slept so very long when a hand touched him. The hand was
gentle, the touch firm but quiet.

Maurice awoke without any start and sat up. The Frenchman was bending
over him. He pointed to the open door of the room--to the open door of
the caravan beyond.

"Run--run away," he said. These were the only words of English he could
master.

"Run away," he repeated and now he carried the child to the open outer
door. Maurice understood; his face brightened; first kissing his
deliverer, he then glided from his arms, ran down the steps of the
caravan, and disappeared.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE ENGLISH FARM.

Cecile had strange dreams that night. Her faith had hitherto been very
simple, very strong, very fervent. Ever since that night at the meeting
of the Salvation Army, when the earnest and longing child had given her
heart to the One who knocked for admittance there, had she been
faithful to her first love. She had found the Guide for whom her soul
longed, and not all the troubles and anxieties of her long and weary
journey--not all the perils of the way--had power to shake her
confidence. Even in the great pain of yesterday Cecile was not greatly
disturbed. Maurice was lost, but she had asked the good Guide Jesus so
earnestly to bring back the little straying lamb, that she was quite
sure he would soon be with them again. In this confidence she had gone
to sleep. But whether it was the discomfort of her position in that
sleep, or that Satan was in very truth come to buffet her; in that
slumber came dreams so terrible, so real, that for the first time the
directness of her confidence was shaken. In her dreams she thought she
heard a voice saying to her over and over again: "There is no
Guide--there is no Lord Jesus Christ." She combated the wicked
suggestion even in her sleep, and awoke to cast it from her with
indignation.

It was daylight when the tired child opened her eyes. She was no longer
lying against Joe's breast in the forest; no, she was in the shelter of
the little hut, and Toby alone was keeping her company. Joe had
vanished, and no Maurice had returned in the darkness as she had fondly
hoped he would the night before. The candle had shed its tiny ray and
burned itself out in vain. The little wanderer had not come back.

Cecile sat up with a weary sigh; her head ached, she felt cold and
chilly. Then a queer fancy, joined to a trembling kind of hope, came
over her. That farm with the English frontage; that fair child with the
English face. Suppose those people were really English? Suppose she
went to them and asked them to help her to look for Maurice, and
suppose, while seeking for her little brother, she obtained a clew to
another and more protracted search?

Cecile thought and thought, and though her temples throbbed with pain,
and she trembled from cold and weariness, the longing to get as near as
possible to this farm, where English people might dwell, became too
great and strong to be resisted.

She rose somewhat languidly, and, calling Toby, went out into the
forest. Here the fresher air revived her, and the exercise took off a
growing sensation of heavy illness. She walked quickly, and as she did
so her hopes became more defined.

The farm Cecile meant to reach lay about a mile from the village of
Bolleau. It was situated on a pretty rise of ground to the very borders
of the forest. Cecile, walking quickly, reached it before long; then
she stood still, leaning over the paling and looking across the
enchanted ground. This paling in itself was English, and the very strut
of the barn-door fowl reminded her of Warren's Grove. How she wished
that fair child to run out! How she hoped to hear even one word of the
only language she understood! No matter her French origin, Cecile was
all English at this moment. Toby stood by her side patiently enough.

Toby, too, was in great trouble and perplexity about Maurice, but his
present strongest instinct was to get at a very fat fowl which,
unconscious of danger, was scratching up worms at its leisure within
almost reach of his nose.

Toby had a weakness, nay, a vice, in the direction of fowl; he liked to
hunt them. He could not imagine why Cecile did not go in at that low
gate which stood a little open close by. Where was the use of remaining
still, in any case, so near temptation? The unwary fowl came close,
very close. Toby could stand it no longer. He made a spring, a snap,
and caught at its beak.

Then ensued a fuss and an uproar; every fowl in the place commenced to
give voice in the cause of an injured comrade. Cackle, cackle, crow,
crow, from, it seemed, hundreds of throats. Toby retired actually
abashed, and out at the same moment, from under the rose-covered porch,
came the pretty fair-haired boy. The child was instantly followed by an
old woman, a regular Frenchwoman, upright, straight as a dart, with
coal-black eyes and snowy hair tidily put away under a tall peasant's
cap.

Cecile heard her utter a French exclamation, then chide pretty sharply
the uproarious birds. Toby lying _perdu_ behind the hedge, the fowl
were naturally chided for much ado about nothing.

Just then the little boy, breaking from the restraining hand, ran
gleefully into a field of waving corn.

"Suzanne, Suzanne!" shouted the Frenchwoman in shrill tones, and then
out flew a much younger woman, a woman who seemed, even to the child
Cecile, very young indeed. A tall, fair young woman, with a face as
pink and white as the boy's, and a wealth of even more golden hair.

"Ah! you naughty little lad. Come here, Jean," she said in English;
then catching the truant child to her bosom, she ran back with him into
the house.

Cecile felt herself turning cold, almost faint. An impulse to run into
that farmhouse, to address that fair-haired young woman, to drag her
story, whatever it might be, from her lips, came over her almost too
strongly to be resisted.

She might have yielded to it, she was indeed about to yield to it, when
suddenly a voice at her elbow, calling her by her name, caused her to