The Children's Pilgrimage

epmother. Mrs. D'Albert drank it off greedily; afterward she seemed refreshed and

t the words of praise, and she came very close to the sofa. "Yes, you're a good child," repeated Mrs. D'Albert; "you're yer father's own child, and he was very good, though he was a for

sentence in these wor

epeated, and every vestige

ed, that was what he meant, Cecile. But look here now, you're not to cry about it-not at present, I mean; you may as much as you like by and by, but not now. I'm not crying, and 'tis a deal worse for me; but there a

e a great effort set her lips firm,

alk all I can to you to-night, my dear, for to-morrow I may have t

nt Lydia?" a

sister; but she's the person as will have to

le face fell, and a bright

yer father's standard, but still fair enough. But she's hard-she is hard ef you like. I don't profess to have any

ind-some one as 'ull be kind to me, and Maurice

advice by and by, Cecile, from one as 'ull be in her grave, you'll not step-aunt her-she's short of temper, Aunt Lydia is. Yes," continued the sick woman, speaking fast, and gasping

stepmo

t a great trust on you, little mite as you are-a great, great trust; you h

ile, opening he

, I don't suppose as you will; but for all that you ha' got to promise, because I won't die easy, else. Cecile," suddenly bending forward, and

ou be fretted, now as you're a-dying. I don't mind ef it is hard. Father often give me hard thing

her. The kiss she gave was warm, intense, passionate; such

se me solemn and true, then I'll die easy and comforted. Yes, I'll die easy, even

vedy?" as

to promise. Lovedy, she's my daughter, Cecile; she ain't no step-c

ad a daughter of yer w

own, my darling! Oh, my bonnie one, 'tis bitter, bitter to die with her far, far awa

nd frightened child, lost her self-control, and sobbed hysterically. Cecil

bless her! She was big and tall, and fair as a lily, and her hair, it was that golden that when the sun shone on it it almost dazzled you. I never seed such hair as my Lovedy's, never, never; it all fell in curls long below her waist. I was that proud of it I spent hours dressing it and washing it

loved me much, for his heart was in the grave with your mother, but he wanted someone to care for you two, and he thought me a tidy, notable body, and so he asked me to marry him and he seemed well off, and I thought it 'ud be a good thing for Lovedy. Besides, I had a real fancy

d of her. They were the bitterest words I ever flung at her, and they seemed to freeze up her whole heart. She got up off her knees and walked away with her pretty head in the air, and wouldn't speak to me for the evening; and the next day she come to me quick and haughty like, and said that if I gave her a stepfather she would not live w

me for her Aunt Fanny, that I said, bitter and sharp

ightened. I said to myself, I'll pretend to let her have her own way, and she'll come round fast enough; and I began to get ready for my wedding,

er. 'Mother, give him up, for Lovedy's sake; it will break my heart, mother. Mother, I am jealous; I must

think now-that she, poor darling, had a kind of notion I

my neat new dress and bon

ome to church to see

le, and her eyes blazed at me and then grew hard, and she put her head dow

a note, all blotted with tears, on the table. Cecile, I have got that little note, and you must put it in my coffi

edy was gone. She had disappeared, and so had her Aunt Fanny, and

hard look had left her face, an expression almost beautiful in its love and longing filled her poor dim e

but her aunt had taken her out of England, and I never heard-I never heard of my Lovedy from the day I married yer father, Cecile. It changed me, child; it changed me most bitter. I grew hard, and I never could love you nor Maurice, no, nor even yer good father, very much after that. I always

down and kissing her hand. "And, oh!" continued Cecile with

g, always-always until you find her. The finding of my Lovedy is to be yer life-work, Cecile. I don't want you to begin now, not till you're older and have got more sense; but you

stepmo

emn as though it were yer werry last breath-look me in the fac

nd Lovedy again,

ss me,

le d

l 'ull haunt you, and you'll never know a moment's happiness. But you're a good girl, Cecile-a good, dependable child, and I'm not afeared for you

ust be very poo

h. No, Cecile, I did not work for myself, nor for you and Maurice-I worked for Lovedy. All that beautiful church embroidery as I sat up so late at night over, the money I got for it was for my girl;

an old, worn Rus

own father. She and I always kept our little earnings in it, in the old

ring and took out a l

give her those notes in the old purse, Cecile. You give them into her own hands, and you say, 'Your mother sent you those. Your mother is dead, but she broke her heart for y

that message-very faithful; ve

ld, for I knew as it 'ud be easier for you-that fifteen pounds is for you, Cecile, to spend in looking for Lovedy; you must not waste it, and you must

y here," said Cecile, looking at the

u find my girl; and ef you're starving, you must not touch those four notes of money, only the fifteen pounds. Remember, only that; and when you get to the little villages away in France, you may go to the inns and ask there ef an English girl wor ever seen about

, and I'll save every penny; but I can't go to look for your Lovedy without Maurice, for I promised father afore ever I promised you as I'

or he'll spend some of the money. But there, it can't be helped, an

y best," said C

'ud make her leave you that money; she 'ud take it away, she 'ud be quite cruel enough to take the money away that I worked myself into my grave to save, and then it 'ud be all up with Lovedy. No, Cecile, you must take the purse o' money away with you this very night, hide it in yer dress, or anywhere, for Aunt Lydia may be here early in the morning, and th