Daybreak | Page 3

lapse of
years could ever efface from poor Kate's mind. A certain morning

dawned, just like other mornings, bright and cold; lessons, house-work
and play went on as usual, only, as the day was drawing to its close,
some men came to the door, carrying a little prostrate figure; and Kate
was standing in the doorway, and saw it all--saw her poor Frances lying
unconscious in the men's arms, her head terribly bruised, and her pretty,
fair curls all tossed over a deathly white face.
She was fond of clambering about by herself, and had slipped from the
roof of a little outhouse, and fallen on her head.
She was put to bed in the sick ward, and the doctor sent for. For three
days and three nights Mother Agnes and Kate watched beside her; on
the fourth day the doctor told them that he could do no more. Frances
wandered much through those last days, talking confusedly of green
fields, and birds singing, and of flowers. Sometimes she would sing
little snatches of the hymns they learnt in school; and she often
spoke--as little dying children do speak of Christ. Mother Agnes'
tenderness to poor Kate almost exceeded her tenderness to the dying
child, but Kate made no response to it. She answered in monosyllables,
and hung down her head with its mass of bushy hair, and dark eyes
gleaming strangely under her overhanging brow.
All was over very soon, and Kate was left with a memory, and with a
tiny little grave to tend.
Mother Agnes felt for her out of the depths of a womanly heart, but
Kate either could not, or would not speak of her sorrow to any living
being.
She gave up all her odd ways, and became quiet, and very gentle; and
as months passed on Mother Agnes began to think that Kate had really
improved in character. She showed signs of talent in so many directions
that the Mother thought of training her for a schoolmistress, and took
real delight in planning for the child's future, except when now and
then some curious little trait of character would raise an uncomfortable
feeling which could not be dispelled.
CHAPTER II.

THE FLIGHT.
A confirmation was to be held during the spring in the neighbouring
village; and the clergyman who prepared the Orphanage children
looked upon Kate as a most promising candidate; she was gentle, and
attentive, and wrote her papers with so much care.
The Confirmation day dawned as sweetly and as brightly as a
Confirmation day should do. The birds were singing their hearts out in
the Orphanage garden; primroses and wallflowers were blooming in
every corner; the apple-trees were in festive array, and little pink and
white petals floated on the breeze, and came in at the open windows.
Then a troop of little girls in grey dresses with white caps assembled,
prayer-book in hand, at the door, waiting for Mother Agnes.
What could keep Mother Agnes so long? The bells have been ringing
for nearly half-an-hour, and they would certainly be late! No, here she
comes, but with a very grave face--much too grave--and oh, where is
Kate?
"Children, we must start," said the Mother sternly, "Kate is not
coming." Naturally the children wondered, and questioned amongst
themselves what had happened, but they little suspected the real facts.
Mother Agnes had gone to look for Kate in the dormitory, feeling that
she should like to take the child's hand in hers, and say something to
comfort and to strengthen her. But Kate was not in the dormitory. Her
grey Sunday dress lay, neatly folded on the bed, the Confirmation cap
arranged on the top of it, and by its side a note, addressed in a bold,
round hand to Mother Agnes.
What on earth could this mean? Mother Agnes stared at the dress,
fingered the note, and then unfastened it with a hand that trembled a
little. The contents were these--
"DEAR MOTHER AGNES,--You have been good to me, so I will tell
you that I am leaving, and not going to come back any more. And it is
not because I do not like you, for I do, though I have never loved any

one but Frances; but I cannot stay in this place any more. Oh! you do
not know what the pain is that I bear. When the birds sing, I seem to
hear Frances' voice singing with them as she did last spring, and I see
her running amongst the flower-beds, and I cannot look at the
apple-tree without seeing her little fair face peeping at me from
between the blossoms. Perhaps you will not care whether I go or stay,
but I hope you will not mind about me, for I shall go to London to find
a