The Childrens Pilgrimage | Page 8

stepmother?" asked the little girl.
"No, child, how could I be ready? I never had no time. I never had a
moment to get ready, Cecile."
"Never a moment to get ready," repeated Cecile. "I should have thought
you had lots of time. You aren't at all a young woman, are you,

stepmother? You must have been a very long time alive."
"Yes, dear; it would seem long to you. But it ain't long really. It seems
very short to look back on. I ain't forty yet, Cecile; and that's counted
no age as lives go; but I never for all that had a moment. When I wor
very young I married; and afore I married, I had only time for play and
pleasure; and then afterward Lovedy came, and her father died, and I
had to think on my grief, and how to bring up Lovedy. I had no time to
remember about dying during those years, Cecile; and since my
Lovedy left me, I have not had one instant to do anything but mourn for
her, and think on her, and work for her. You see, Cecile, I never did
have a moment, even though I seems old to you."
"No, stepmother, I see you never did have no time," repeated Cecile
gravely.
"But it ain't nice to think on now," repeated Mrs. D'Albert, in a fretful,
anxious key. "I ha' got to go, and I ain't ready to go, that's the puzzle."
"Perhaps it don't take so very long to get ready," answered the child, in
a perplexed voice.
"Cecile," said Mrs. D'Albert, "you're a very wise little girl. Think deep
now, and answer me this: Do you believe as God 'ull be very angry
with a poor woman who had never, no never a moment of time to get
ready to die?"
"Stepmother," answered Cecile solemnly, "I don't know nothink about
God. Father didn't know, nor my own mother; and you say you never
had no time to know, stepmother. Only once--once----"
"Well, child, go on. Once?"
"Once me and Maurice were in the streets, and Toby was with us, and
we had walked a long way and were tired, and we sat down on a
doorstep to rest; and a girl come up, and she looked tired too, and she
had some crochet in her hand; and she took out her crochet and began
to work. And presently--jest as if she could not help it--she sang. This

wor what she sang. I never forgot the words:
"'I am so glad that Jesus loves me; Jesus loves even me.'
"The girl had such a nice voice, stepmother, and she sang out so bold,
and seemed so happy, that I couldn't help asking her what it meant. I
said, 'Please, English girl, I'm only a little French girl, and I don't know
all the English words; and please, who's Jesus, kind little English girl?'
"'Oh! don't you know about Jesus?' she said at once. 'Why, Jesus
is--Jesus is----Oh! I don't know how to tell you; but He's good, He's
beautiful, He's dear. Jesus loves everybody."
"'Jesus loves everybody?' I said.
"'Yes. Don't the hymn say so? Jesus loves even me!'"
"'Oh! but I suppose 'tis because you're very, very good, little English
girl,' I said.
"But the English girl said, 'No, that wasn't a bit of it. She wasn't good,
though she did try to be. But Jesus loved everybody, whether they were
good or not, ef only they'd believe it.'
"That's all she told me, stepmother; but she just said one thing more,
'Oh, what a comfort to think Jesus loves one when one remembers
about dying.'"
While Cecile was telling her little tale, Mrs. D'Albert had closed her
eyes; now she opened them.
"Are you sure that is all you know, child, just 'Jesus loves everybody?'
It do seem nice to hear that. Cecile, could you jest say a bit of a
prayer?"
"I can only say, 'Our Father,'" answered Cecile.
"Well, then, go on your knees and say it earnest; say it werry earnest,
Cecile."

Cecile did so, and when her voice had ceased, Mrs. D'Albert opened
her eyes, clasped her hands together, and spoke:
"Jesus," she said, "Lord Jesus, I'm dreadful, bitter sorry as I never took
no time to get ready to die. Jesus, can you love even me?"
There was no answer in words, but a new and satisfied look came into
the poor, hungry eyes; a moment later, and the sick and dying woman
had dropped asleep.
CHAPTER IV.
TOBY.
Quite early in that same long morning, before little Maurice had even
opened his sleepy eyes, the woman whom Mrs. D'Albert called Aunt
Lydia arrived. She was a large, stout woman with a face made very red
and rough from constant exposure to