The Childrens Pilgrimage | Page 7

best, Cecile."
"My werry, werry best," said Cecile earnestly.
"Well, child, there's only one thing more. All this as I'm telling you is a
secret, a solemn, solemn secret. Ef yer Aunt Lydia gets wind on it, or ef
she ever even guesses as you have all that money, everything 'ull be
ruined. Yer aunt is hard and saving, and she do hanker sore for money,
she always did--did Lydia, and not all the stories you could tell her '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 the weakness may be on me then. Yes, Cecile, you has
charge on that money, fifty-five pounds in all; fifteen pounds for you to
spend, and forty to give to Lovedy. Wherever you go, you must hide it
so safe that no one 'ull ever guess as a poor little girl like you has
money, for anyone might rob you, child; but the one as I'm fearing the
most is yer Aunt Lydia."
CHAPTER III.
"NEVER A MOMENT TO GET READY."
To all these directions Cecile listened, and she there and then took the
old worn purse with its precious contents away with her, and went into
the bedroom which she shared with her brother, and taking out her
needle and thread she made a neat, strong bag for the purse, and this
bag she sewed securely into the lining of her frock-body. She showed
her stepmother what she had done, who smiled and seemed satisfied.
For the rest of that night Cecile sat on by the sofa where Mrs. D'Albert
lay. Now that the excitement of telling her tale had passed, the dreaded
weakness had come back to the poor woman. Her voice, so strong and
full of interest when speaking of Lovedy, had sunk to a mere whisper.
She liked, however, to have her little stepdaughter close to her, and
even held her hand in hers. That little hand now was a link between her
and her lost girl, and as such, for the first time she really loved Cecile.
As for the child herself, she was too excited far to sleep. The sorrow so
loving a heart must have felt at the prospect of her stepmother's
approaching death was not just now realized; she was absorbed in the
thought of the tale she had heard, of the promise she had made.
Cecile was grave and womanly far beyond her years, and she knew
well that she had taken no light thing on her young shoulders. To shirk
this duty would not be possible to a nature such as hers. No, she must
go through with it; she had registered a vow, and she must fulfill it. Her
little face, always slightly careworn, looked now almost pathetic under
its load of care.

"Yes, poor stepmother," she kept saying to herself, "I will find
Lovedy--I will find Lovedy or die."
Then she tried to imagine the joyful moment when her quest would be
crowned with success, when she would see herself face to face with the
handsome, willful girl, whom she yet must utterly fail to understand;
for it would have been completely impossible for Cecile herself, under
any circumstances, to treat her father as Lovedy had treated her poor
mother.
"I could never, never go away like that, and let father's heart break,"
thought Cecile, her lips growing white at the bare idea of such suffering
for one she loved. But then it came to her with a sense of relief that
perhaps Lovedy's Aunt Fanny was the guilty person, and that she
herself was quite innocent; her aunt, who was powerful and strong, had
been unkind, and had not allowed her to write. When this thought came
to Cecile, she gave a sigh of relief. It would be so much nicer to find
Lovedy, if she was not so hard-hearted as her story seemed to show.
All that night Mrs. D'Albert lay with her eyes closed, but not asleep.
When the first dawn came in through the shutters she turned to the
watching child:
"Cecile," she said, "the day has broke, and this is the day the doctor
says as perhaps I'll die."
"Shall I open the shutters wide?" asked Cecile.
"No, my dear. No, no! The light 'ull come quite fast enough. Cecile,
ain't it a queer thing to be going to die, and not to be a bit ready to die?"
"Ain't you ready,