The Childrens Pilgrimage | Page 4

now as you're a-dying. I don't mind
ef it is hard. Father often give me hard things to do, and I did 'em.
Father said I wor werry dependable," continued the little creature
gravely.
To her surprise, her stepmother bent forward and and kissed her. The
kiss she gave was warm, intense, passionate; such a kiss as Cecile had
never before received from those lips.
"You're a good child," she said eagerly; "yes, you're a very good child;
you promise me solemn and true, then I'll die easy and comforted. Yes,
I'll die easy, even though Lovedy ain't with me, even though I'll never
lay my eyes on my Lovedy again."
"Who's Lovedy?" asked Cecile.
"Aye, child, we're coming to Lovedy, 'tis about Lovedy you've got to
promise. Lovedy, she's my daughter, Cecile; she ain't no step-child, but
my own, my werry own, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh."
"I never knew as you had a daughter of yer werry own," said Cecile.

"But I had, Cecile. I had as true a child to me as you were to yer father.
My own, my own, my darling! Oh, my bonnie one, 'tis bitter, bitter to
die with her far, far away! Not for four years now have I seen my girl.
Oh, if I could see her face once again!"
Here the poor woman, who was opening up her life-story to the
astonished and frightened child, lost her self-control, and sobbed
hysterically. Cecile fetched water, and gave it to her, and in a few
moments she became calm.
"There now, my dear, sit down and listen. I'll soon be getting weak, and
I must tell everything tonight. Years ago, Cecile, afore ever I met yer
father, I was married. My husband was a sailor, and he died at sea. But
we had one child, one beautiful, bonnie English girl; nothing foreign
about her, bless her! She was big and tall, and fair as a lily, and her hair,
it was that golden that when the sun shone on it it almost dazzled you. I
never seed such hair as my Lovedy's, never, never; it all fell in curls
long below her waist. I was that proud of it I spent hours dressing it and
washing it, and keeping it like any lady's. Then her eyes, they were just
two bits of the blue sky in her head, and her little teeth were like white
pearls, and her lips were always smiling. She had an old-world English
name taken from my mother, but surely it fitted her, for to look at her
was to love her.
"Well, my dear, my girl and me, we lived together till she was near
fifteen, and never a cloud between us. We were very poor; we lived by
my machining and what Lovedy could do to help me. There was never
a cloud between us, until one day I met yer father. I don't say as yer
father loved me much, for his heart was in the grave with your mother,
but he wanted someone to care for you two, and he thought me a tidy,
notable body, and so he asked me to marry him and he seemed well off,
and I thought it 'ud be a good thing for Lovedy. Besides, I had a real
fancy for him; so I promised. I never even guessed as my girl 'ud mind,
and I went home to our one shabby little room, quite light-hearted like,
to tell her. But oh, Cecile, I little knew my Lovedy! Though I had
reared her I did not know her nature. My news seemed to change her all
over.

"From being so sweet and gentle, she seemed to have the very devil
woke up in her. First soft, and trembling and crying, she went down on
her knees and begged me to give yer father up; but I liked him, and I
felt angered with her for taking on what I called foolish, and I wouldn't
yield; and I told her she was real silly, and I was ashamed of her. They
were the bitterest words I ever flung at her, and they seemed to freeze
up her whole heart. She got up off her knees and walked away with her
pretty head in the air, and wouldn't speak to me for the evening; and the
next day she come to me quick and haughty like, and said that if I gave
her a stepfather she would not live with me; she would go to her Aunt
Fanny, and her Aunt Fanny would take her to Paris, and there she
would see life. Fanny was my youngest sister, and she was married to a
traveler for one of the big shops, and often went about with her
husband and