The Childrens Pilgrimage | Page 2

looked straight up into the tall doctor's face:
"Is my stepmother going to be ill very long, Dr. Austin?"
"No, my dear; I don't expect her illness will last much longer."
"Oh, then, she'll be quite well to-morrow."
"Perhaps--in a sense--who knows!" said the doctor, jerking out his
words and speaking queerly. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but
finally nodding to the child, turned on his heel and walked away.
Cecile, satisfied with this answer, and reading no double meaning in it,
followed her brother and the dog upstairs. She entered a tolerably
comfortable sitting-room, where, on a sofa, lay a woman partly dressed.
The woman's cheeks were crimson, and her large eyes, which were
wide open, were very bright. Little Maurice had already found a seat

and a hunch of bread and butter, and was enjoying both drawn up by a
good fire, while the dog Toby crouched at his feet and snapped at
morsels which he threw him. Cecile, scarcely glancing at the group by
the fire, went straight up to the woman on the sofa:
"Stepmother," she said, taking her hand in hers, "Dr. Austin says you'll
be quite well to-morrow."
The woman gazed hard and hungrily into the sweet eyes of the child;
she held her small hand with almost feverish energy, but she did not
speak, and when Maurice called out from the fire, "Cecile, I want some
more bread and butter," she motioned to her to go and attend to him.
All his small world did attend to Maurice at once, so Cecile ran to him,
and after supplying him with milk and bread and butter, she took his
hand to lead him to bed. There were only two years between the
children, but Maurice seemed quite a baby, and Cecile a womanly
creature.
When they got into the tiny bedroom, which they shared together,
Cecile helped her little brother to undress, and tucked him up when he
got into bed.
"Now, Toby," she said, addressing the dog, whose watchful eyes had
followed her every movement, "you must lie down by Maurice and
keep him company; and good-night, Maurice, dear."
"Won't you come to bed too, Cecile?"
"Presently, darling; but first I have to see to stepmother. Our
stepmother is very ill, you know, Maurice."
"Very ill, you know," repeated Maurice sleepily, and without
comprehending; then he shut his eyes, and Cecile went back into the
sitting-room.
The sick woman had never stirred during the child's absence, now she
turned round eagerly. The little girl went up to the sofa with a confident

step. Though her stepmother was so ill now, she would be quite well
to-morrow, so the doctor had said, and surely the best way to bring that
desirable end about was to get her to have as much sleep as possible.
"Stepmother," said Cecile softly, "'tis very late; may I bring in your
night-dress and air it by the fire, and then may I help you to get into
bed, stepmother dear?"
"No, Cecile," replied the sick woman. "I'm not going to stir from this
yere sofa to-night."
"Oh, but then--but then you won't be quite well to-morrow," said the
child, tears springing to her eyes.
"Who said I'd be quite well to-morrow?" asked Cecile's stepmother.
"Dr. Austin, mother; I asked him, and he said, 'Yes,'--at least he said
'Perhaps,' but I think he was very sure from his look."
"Aye, child, aye; he was very sure, but he was not meaning what you
were meaning. Well, never mind; but what was that you called me just
now, Cecile?"
"I--I----" said Cecile, hesitating and coloring.
"Aye, like enough 'twas a slip of your tongue. But you said, 'Mother';
you said it without the 'step' added on. You don't know --not that it
matters now--but you won't never know how that 'stepmother' hardened
my heart against you and Maurice, child."
"'Twas our father," said Cecile; "he couldn't forget our own mother, and
he asked us not to say 'Mother,' and me and Maurice, we could think of
no other way. It wasn't that we--that I--didn't love."
"Aye, child, you're a tender little thing; I'm not blaming you, and
maybe I couldn't have borne the word from your lips, for I didn't love
you, Cecile--neither you nor Maurice--I had none of the mother about
me for either of you little kids. Aye, you were right enough; your father,

Maurice D'Albert, never forgot his Rosalie, as he called her. I always
thought as Frenchmen were fickle, but he worn't not fickle enough for
me. Well, Cecile, I'm no way sleepy, and I've a deal to say, and no one
but you to say it to; I'm more strong now than I have been for the day,
so I'd better say my say while