The next two hours were devoted by Cecile and Joe to Maurice, whom they tickled, shouted to, played with, and when everything else failed, Joe would even hold him up by his legs in the air.

Maurice did not quite go to sleep, but the cold was so intense that the poor little fellow cried with pain.

At the end of about two hours the snow ceased. The dark clouds rolled away from the sky, which shone down deep blue, peaceful, and star-bespangled on the children. The wind, also, had gone down, and the night was calm, though most bitterly cold.

It had, however, been a very terrible snowstorm, and the snow, quite dazzling white, lay already more than a foot deep on the ground.

"Why, Cecile," said Joe, "I can see Caen again."

"Do you think we could walk back to Caen now, Joe?"

"I don't know. I'll jest try a little bit first. I wish we could. You keep Maurice awake, Cecile, and I'll be back in a minute."

Cecile took her little brother in her arms, and Joe disappeared round the corner of the old wall.

"Stay with the children, Toby," he said to the dog, and Toby stayed.

"Cecile," said Maurice, nestling up close to his sister, "'tisn't half so cold now."

He spoke in a tone of great content and comfort, but his sweet baby voice sounded thin and weak.

"Oh, yes! Maurice, darling, it's much colder. I'm in dreadful pain from the cold."

"I was, Cecile, but 'tis gone. I'm not cold at all; I'm ever so comfortable. You'll be like me when the pain goes."

"Maurice, I think we had better keep walking up and down."

"No, no, Cecile, I won't walk no more. I'm so tired, and I'm so comfortable. Cecile, do they sing away in the South?"

"I don't know, darling. I suppose they do."

"Well, I know they sing in heaven. Mammie Moseley said so. Cecile, I'd much rather go to heaven than to the South. Would not you?"

"Yes, I think so. Maurice, you must not go to sleep."

"I'm not going to sleep. Cecile, will you sing that pretty song about glory? Mrs. Moseley used to sing it."

"That one about 'thousands of children?'" said Cecile.

"Yes—singing, 'Glory, glory, glory.'"

Cecile began. She sang a line or two, then she stopped. Maurice had fallen a little away from her. His mouth was partly open, his pretty eyes were closed fast and tight. Cecile called him, she shook him, she even cried over him, but all to no effect, he was fast asleep.

Yes, Maurice was asleep, and Cecile was holding him in her arms.

Joe was away? and Toby?—Cecile was not very sure where Toby was.

She and her little brother were alone, half buried in the snow. What a dreadful position! What a terrible danger!

Cecile kept repeating to herself, "Maurice is asleep, Maurice will never wake again. If I sleep I shall never wake again,"

But the strange thing was that, realizing the danger, Cecile did not care. She was not anxious about Joe. She had no disposition to call to Toby. Even the purse of gold and the sacred promise became affairs of little moment. Everything grew dim to her—everything indifferent. She was only conscious of a sense of intense relief, only sure that the dreadful, dreadful pain from the cold in her legs was leaving her —that she, too, no longer felt the cold of the night. Jesus the Guide seemed very, very near, and she fancied that she heard "thousands of children" singing, "Glory, glory, glory."

Then she remembered no more.



CHAPTER IV.

TOBY AGAIN TO THE RESCUE.

Meanwhile Joe was struggling in a snowdrift. Not ten paces away he had suddenly sunk down up to his waist. Notwithstanding his rough hard life, his want of food, his many and countless privations, he was a strong lad. Life was fresh and full within him. He would not, he could not let it go cheaply. He struggled and tried hard to gain a firmer footing, but although his struggles certainly kept him alive, they were hitherto unavailing. Suddenly he heard a cry, and was conscious that something heavy was springing in the air. This something was Toby, who, in agony at the condition of Cecile and Maurice, had gone in search of Joe. He now leaped on to the lad's shoulder, thus by no means assisting his efforts to free himself.

"Hi, Toby lad! off! off!" he shouted; "back to the firm ground, good dog."

Toby obeyed, and in so doing Joe managed to catch him by the tail. It was certainly but slight assistance, but in some wonderful way it proved itself enough. Joe got out of the drift, and was able to return with the dog to the friendly shelter of the old wall. There, indeed, a pang of terror and dismay seized him. Both children, locked tightly in each other's arms, were sound asleep.

Asleep! Did it only mean sleep? That deathly pallor, that breathing which came slower and slower from the pretty parted lips! Already the little hands and feet were cold as death. Joe wondered if even now could succor come, would it be in time? He turned to the one living creature besides himself in this scene of desolation.

"Toby," he said, "is there any house near? Toby, if we cannot soon get help for Cecile and Maurice, they will die. Think, Toby—think, good dog."

Toby looked hard at Joe Barnes. Then he instantly sat down on his hind legs. Talk of dogs not having thoughts—Toby was considering hard just then. He felt a swelling sense of gratitude and even love for Joe for consulting him. He would put his dog's brain to good use now. Already he had thought of the friendly shelter of the old broken wall. Now he let his memory carry him back a trifle farther. What else had those sharp eyes of his taken in besides the old wall? Why, surely, surely, just down in the hollow, not many yards away, a little smoke. Did not smoke mean a fire? Did not a fire mean a house? Did not a house mean warmth and food and comfort? Toby was on his feet in a moment, his tail wagging fast. He looked at Joe and ran on, the boy following carefully. Very soon Joe too saw, not only a thin column of smoke, but a thick volume, caused by a large wood fire, curling up amidst the whiteness of the snow. The moment his eyes rested on the welcome sight, he sent Toby back. "Go and lie on the children, Toby. Keep them as warm as you can, good dog, dear dog." And Toby obeyed.



CHAPTER VIII.

A FARM IN NORMANDY.

A Norman gentleman farmer and his wife sat together in their snug parlor. Their children had all gone to bed an hour ago. Their one excellent servant was preparing supper in the kitchen close by. The warmly-curtained room had a look of almost English comfort. Children's books and toys lay scattered about. The good house-mother, after putting these in order, sat down by her husband's side to enjoy the first quiet half hour of the day.

"What a fall of snow we have had, Marie," said M. Dupois, "and how bitterly cold it is! Why, already the thermometer is ten degrees below zero. I hate such deep snow. I must go out with the sledge the first thing in the morning and open a road."

Of course this husband and wife conversed in French, which is here translated.

"Hark!" said Mme. Dupois, suddenly raising her forefinger, "is not that something like a soft knocking? Can anyone have fallen down in this deep snow at our door?"

M. Dupois rose at once and pushed aside the crimson curtain from one of the windows.

"Yes, yes," he exclaimed quickly, "you are right, my good wife; here is a lad lying on the ground. Run and get Annette to heat blankets and make the kitchen fire big. I will go round to the poor boy."

When M. Dupois did at last reach Joe Barnes, he had only strength to murmur in his broken French, "Go and save the others under the old wall—two children and dog"—before he fainted away.

But his broken words were enough; he had come to people who had the kindest hearts in the world.

It seemed but a moment before he himself was reviving before the blazing warmth of a great fire, while the good farmer with three of his men was searching for the missing children.

They were not long in discovering them, with the dog himself, now nearly frozen, stretched across Cecile's body.

Poor little starving lambs! they were taken into warmth and shelter, though it was a long time before either Cecile or Maurice showed the faintest signs of life.

Maurice came to first, Cecile last. Indeed so long was she unconscious, so unavailing seemed all the warm brandy that was poured between her lips, that Mme. Dupois thought she must be dead.

The farmer's children, awakened by the noise, had now slipped downstairs in their little nightdresses. And when at last Cecile's blue eyes opened once more on this world, it was to look into the bright black orbs of a little Norman maiden of about her own age.

"Oh, look, mamma! Look! her eyes open, she sees! she lives! she moves! Ah, mother! how pleased I am."

The little French girl cried in her joy, and Cecile watched her wonderingly, After a time she asked in a feeble, fluttering voice:

"Please is this heaven? Have we two little children really got to heaven?"

Her English words were only understood by Mme. Dupois, and not very perfectly by her. She told the child that she was not in heaven, but in a kind earthly home, where she need not think, but just eat something and then go to sleep.

"And oh, mamma! How worn her little shoes are! and may I give her my new hat, mamma?" asked the pretty and pitying little Pauline.

"In the morning, my darling. In the morning we will see to all that. Now the poor little wanderers must have some nice hot broth, and then they shall sleep here by the kitchen fire,"

Strange to say, notwithstanding the terrible hardships they had undergone, neither Cecile nor Maurice was laid up with rheumatic fever. They slept soundly in the warmth and comfort of the delicious kitchen, and awoke the next morning scarcely the worse for their grave danger and peril.

And now followed what might have been called a week in the Palace Beautiful for these little pilgrims. For while the snow lasted, and the weather continued so bitterly cold, neither M. nor Mme. Dupois would hear of their leaving them. With their whole warm hearts these good Christian people took in the children brought to them by the snow. Little Pauline and her brother Charles devoted themselves to Cecile and Maurice, and though their mutual ignorance of the only language the others could speak was owned to be a drawback, yet they managed to play happily and to understand a great deal; and here, had Cecile confided as much of her little story to kind Mme. Dupois as she had done to Joe Barnes, all that follows need never have been written. But alas! again that dread, that absolute terror that her purse of gold, if discovered, might be taken from her, overcame the poor little girl; so much so that, when Madame questioned her in her English tone as to her life's history, and as to her present pilgrimage, Cecile only replied that she was going through France on her way to the South, that she had relations in the South. Joe, when questioned, also said that he had a mother and a brother in the South, and that he was taking care of Cecile and Maurice on their way there.

Mme. Dupois did not really know English well, and Cecile's reserve, joined to her few words of explanation, only puzzled her. As both she and her husband were poor, and could not, even if it were desirable, adopt the children, there seemed nothing for it but, when the weather cleared, to let them continue on their way.

"There is one thing, however, we can do to help them," said M. Dupois. "I have decided to sell that corn and hay in Paris, and as the horses are just eating their heads off with idleness just now in their stables, the men shall take the wagons there instead of having the train expenses; the children therefore can ride to Paris in the wagons."

"That will take nearly a week, will it not, Gustave?" asked Mme. Dupois.

"It will take three or four days, but I will provision the men. Yes, I think it the best plan, and the surest way of disposing advantageously of the hay and corn. The children may be ready to start by Monday. The roads will be quite passable then."

So it was decided, and so it came to pass; Charles and Pauline assuring Joe, who in turn informed Cecile and Maurice, that the delights of riding in one of their papa's wagons passed all description. Pauline gave Cecile not only a new hat but new boots and a new frock. Maurice's scanty and shabby little wardrobe was also put in good repair, nor was poor Joe neglected, and with tears and blessing on both sides, these little pilgrims parted from those who had most truly proved to them good Samaritans.



CHAPTER IX.

O MINE ENEMY!

Whatever good Cecile's purse of gold might be to her ultimately, at present it was but a source of peril and danger.

Had anyone suspected the child of carrying about so large a treasure, her life even might have been the forfeit. Joe Barnes knew this well, and he was most careful that no hint as to the existence of the purse should pass his lips.

During the week the children spent at the happy Norman farm all indeed seemed very safe, and yet even there, there was a secret, hidden danger. A danger which would reveal itself by and by.

As I have said, it was arranged that the little party should go to Paris in M. Dupois' wagons; and the night before their departure Joe had come to Cecile, and begged her during their journey, when it would be impossible for them to be alone, and when they must be at all times more or less in the company of the men who drove and managed the wagons, to be most careful not to let anyone even suspect the existence of the purse. He even begged of her to let him take care of it for her until they reached Paris. But when she refused to part with it, he got her to consent that he should keep enough silver out of its contents to pay their slight expenses on the road.

Very slight these expenses would be, for kind M. Dupois had provisioned the wagons with food, and at night they would make a comfortable shelter. Still Cecile so far listened to Joe as to give him some francs out of her purse.

She had an idea that it was safest in the hiding place next her heart, where her stepmother had seen her place it, and she had made a firm resolve that, if need be, her life should be taken before she parted with this precious purse of gold. For the Russia-leather purse represented her honor to the little girl.

But, as I said, an unlooked-for danger was near—a danger, too, which had followed her all the way from Warren's Grove. Lydia Purcell had always been very particular whom she engaged to work on Mrs. Bell's farm, generally confining herself to men from the same shire. But shortly before the old lady's death, being rather short of hands to finish the late harvest, a tramp from some distant part of the country had offered his services. Lydia, driven to despair to get a certain job finished before the weather finally broke, had engaged him by the week, had found him an able workman, and had not ever learned to regret her choice. The man, however, was disliked by his fellow-laborers. They called him a foreigner, and accused him of being a sneak and a spy. All these charges he denied stoutly; nevertheless they were true. The man was of Norman-French birth. He had drifted over to England when a lad. His parents had been respectable farmers in Normandy. They had educated their son; he was clever, and had the advantage of knowing both French and English thoroughly. Nevertheless he was a bad fellow. He consorted with rogues; he got into scrapes; many times he saw the inside of an English prison. But so plausible was Simon Watts—as he called himself on the Warren's Grove farm—that Aunt Lydia was completely taken in by him. She esteemed him a valuable servant, and rather spoiled him with good living. Simon, keeping his own birth for many reasons a profound secret, would have been more annoyed than gratified had he learned that the children on the farm were also French. He heard this fact through an accident on the night of their departure. It so happened that Simon slept in a room over the stable where the pony was kept; and Jane Parsons, in going for this pony to harness him to the light cart, awoke Simon from his light slumber. He came down to find her harnessing Bess; and on his demanding what she wanted with the pony at so very early an hour, she told him in her excitement rather more of the truth than was good for him to know.

"Those blessed children were being robbed of quite a large sum of money. They wanted the money to carry them back to France. It had been left to the little girl for a certain purpose by one who was dead. They were little French children, bless them! Lydia Purcell had a heart of stone, but she, Jane, had outwitted her. The children had got back their money, and Jane was about to drive them over to catch the night mail for London, where they should be well received and cared for by a friend of her own."

So explained Jane Parsons, and Simon Watts had listened; he wished for a few moments that he had known about this money a little sooner, and then, seeing that there seemed no help for it, as the children were being moved absolutely out of his reach, had dismissed the matter from his mind.

But, see! how strange are the coincidences of life! Soon after, Simon not only learned that all the servants on the farm were to change hands, that many of them would be dismissed, but he also learned some very disagreeable news in connection with the police, which would make it advisable for him to make himself scarce at a moment's notice. He vanished from Warren's Grove, and not being very far from Dover, worked his way across the Channel in a fishing-smack, and once more, after an absence of ten years, trod his native shores.

Instantly he dropped his character as an Englishman, and became as French as anyone about him. He walked to Caen, found out M. Dupois, and was engaged on his farm. Thus he once more, in the most unlooked-for manner, came directly across the paths of Cecile and Maurice.

But a further queer thing was to happen. Watts now calling himself Anton, being better educated than his fellow-laborers, and having always a wonderful power of impressing others with his absolute honesty, was thought a highly desirable person by M. Dupois to accompany his head-steward to Paris, and assist him in the sale of the great loads of hay and corn. Cecile and Maurice did not know him in the least. He was now dressed in the blouse of a French peasant, and besides they had scarcely ever seen him at Warren's Grove.

But Anton, recognizing the children, thought about them day and night. He considered it a wonderful piece of luck that had brought these little pilgrims again across his path. He was an unscrupulous man, he was a thief, he resolved that the children's money should be his. He had, however, some difficulties to encounter. Watching them closely, he saw that Cecile never paid for anything. That, on all occasions, when a few sous were needed, Joe was appealed to, and from Joe's pocket would the necessary sum be forthcoming.

He, therefore, concluded that Cecile had intrusted her money to Joe. Had he not been so very sure of this—had he for a moment believed that a little child so helpless and so young as Cecile carried about with her so much gold—I am afraid he would have simply watched his opportunity, have stifled the cries of the little creature, have torn her treasure from her grasp, and decamped. But Anton believed that Joe was the purse-bearer, and Joe was a more formidable person to deal with. Joe was very tall and strong for his age; whereas Anton was a remarkably little and slender man. Joe, too, watched the children day and night like a dragon. Anton felt that in a hand-to-hand fight Joe would have the best of it. Also, to declare his knowledge of the existence of the purse, he would have to disclose his English residence, and his acquaintance with the English tongue. That fact once made known might have seriously injured his prospects with M. Dupois' steward, and, in place of anything better, he wished to keep in the good graces of this family for the present.

Still so clever a person as Anton, alias Watts, could go warily to work, and after thinking it all over, he decided to make himself agreeable to Joe. In their very first interview he set his own mind completely at rest as to the fact that the children carried money with them; that the large sum spoken of by Jane Parsons was still intact, and still in their possession.

Not that poor Joe had revealed a word; but when Anton led up to the subject of money there was an eager, too eager avoidance of the theme, joined to a troubled and anxious expression in his boyish face, which told the clever and bad man all he wanted.

In their second long talk together, he learned little by little the boy's own history. Far more than he had cared to confide to Cecile did Joe tell to Anton of his early life, of his cruel suffering as a little apprentice to his bad master, of his bitter hardships, of his narrow escapes, finally of his successful running away. And now of the hope which burned within him night and day; the hope of once more seeing his mother, of once more being taken home to his mother's heart.

"I'd rather die than give it up," said poor Joe in conclusion, and when he said these words with sudden and passionate fervor, wicked Anton felt that the ball, as he expressed it, was at his feet.

Anton resolved so to work on Joe's fears, so to trade on his affections for his mother and his early home, and if necessary, so to threaten to deliver him up to his old master, who could punish him for running away, that Joe himself, to set himself free, would part with Cecile's purse of gold.

The bad man could scarcely sleep with delight as he formed his schemes; he longed to know how much the purse contained—of course in his eagerness he doubled the sum it really did possess.

He now devoted all his leisure time to the little pilgrims, and all the little party made friends with him except Toby. But wise Toby looked angry when he saw him talking to Cecile, and pretending that he was learning some broken English from her pretty lips.

When they got to Paris, Anton promised to provide the children with both cheap and comfortable lodgings. He had quite determined not to lose sight of them until his object was accomplished.



CHAPTER X.

WARNED OF GOD IN A DREAM.

And now a strange thing happened to Cecile, something which shows, I think, very plainly how near the heavenly Guide really was to His little wandering lamb.

After nearly a week spent on the road M. Dupois' wagons reached Paris in perfect safety, and then Anton, according to his promise, took the three children and their dog to lodge with a friend of his.

M. Dupois' steward made no objection to this arrangement, for Anton seemed a most steady and respectable man, and the children had all made great friends with him.

Chuckling inwardly, Anton led his little charges to a part of Paris called the Cite. This was where the very poor lived, and Anton guessed it would best suit his purpose. The houses were very old and shabby, most of them consisting of only two stories, though a few could even boast of four. These wretched and dirty houses were quite as bad as any London slums. Little particular Maurice declared he did not like the nasty smells, but on Anton informing Cecile that lodgings would be very cheap here, she made up her mind to stay for at least a night. Anton took the children up to the top of one of the tallest of the houses. Here were two fair-sized rooms occupied by an old man and woman. The man was ill and nearly blind, the woman was also too aged and infirm to work. She seemed, however, a good-natured old soul, and told Joe—for, of course, she did not understand a word of English—that she had lost five children, but though they were often almost starving, she could never bring herself to sell these little ones' clothes—she now pointed to them hanging on five peg—on the wall. The old couple had a grandson aged seventeen. This boy, thin and ragged as he was, had a face full of fun and mischief. "He picks up odd jobs, and so we manage to live," said the old woman to Joe.

Both she and her husband were glad to take the children in, and promised to make them comfortable—which they did, after a fashion.

"We can stay here one night. We shall be quite rested and able to go on down south to-morrow, Joe," said Cecile.

And Joe nodded, inwardly resolving that one night in such quarters should be all they should spend. For he felt that though of course Anton knew nothing about the existence of the purse, yet, that had it been known, it would not be long in Cecile's possession were she to remain there.

Poor Joe! he little guessed that Anton had heard and understood every word of Cecile's English, and was making up his mind just as firmly as Joe. His intention was that not one of that little band should leave the purlieus of the Cite until that purse with its precious contents was his.

The old couple, however, were really both simple and honest. They had no accommodation that night for Anton; consequently, for that first night Cecile's treasure was tolerably free from danger.

And now occurred that event which I must consider the direct intervention of the Guide Jesus on Cecile's behalf. This event was nothing more nor less than a dream. Now anyone may dream. Of all the common and unimportant things under the sun, dreams in our present day rank as the commonest, the most unimportant. No one thinks about dreams. People, if they have got any reputation for wisdom, do not even care to mention them. Quite true, but there are dreams and dreams; and I still hold to my belief that Cecile's dream was really sent to her direct from heaven.

For instance, there never was a more obstinate child than Cecile D'Albert. Once get an idea or a resolve firmly fixed in her ignorant and yet wise little head, and she would cling to it for bare life. Her dead stepmother's directions were as gospel to the little girl, and one of her directions was to keep the purse at all hazards. Not any amount of wise talking, not the most clear exposition of the great danger she ran in retaining it, could have moved her. She really loved Joe. But Joe's words would have been as nothing to her, had he asked her to transfer the precious leather purse to his care. And yet a dream converted Cecile, and induced her to part with her purse without any further difficulty. Lying on a heap of straw by Maurice's side, Cecile dreamt in that vivid manner which makes a vision of the night so real.

Jesus the Guide came into the room. It was no longer a man or a woman, or even a kind boy sent by Him. No, no, He came Himself. He came radiant and yet human, with a face something as Cecile imagined her own mother's face, and He said, "Lovedy's gold is in danger, it is no longer safe with you. Take it to-morrow to the Faubourg St. G——. There is an English lady there. Her name will be on the door of a house. Ask to see her. She will be at home. Give her Lovedy's money to keep for her. The money will be quite safe then."

Immediately after this extraordinary dream Cecile awoke, nor could she close her eyes again that night. The Faubourg St. G—— kept dancing before her eyes. She seemed to see a shabby suburb, and then a long and rather narrow street, and when her eyes were quite weary with all the strange French names, there came a plain unmistakable English name, and Cecile felt that the lady who bore this name must be the caretaker of the precious purse for the present. Yes, she must go to the Faubourg St. G——. She must find it without delay. Cecile believed in her dream most fervently. She was quite sure there was such a part of the great city—there was such a lady. Had not Jesus the Guide come Himself to tell her to go to her?

Cecile, reading her New Testament for the first time, had vivid memories about its wonderful stories. What, alas! is often hackneyed to older and so-called wiser folks, came with power to the little child. Cecile was not surprised that she should be told what to do in a dream. The New Testament was full of accounts of people who were warned of God in a dream. She, too, had been sent this divine warning. Nothing should prevent her acting upon it. In the morning she resolved to tell Joe all about her vision, and then ask him to take her without delay to the English lady who lived in the Faubourg St. G——. But when she got up no Joe was visible, and the old woman managed to convey to her that he had gone out to make some inquiries about their journey south, and would not be back for some hours. She then poured out a decoction which she called coffee and gave it to the children, and Cecile drank it off, wondering, as she did so, how she, who did not know a word of French, could find her way alone to the Faubourg St. G——. As she thought, she raised her eyes and encountered the fixed, amused, and impudent gaze of the old woman's grandson. This lad had taken a fancy to Cecile and Maurice from the first. He now sat opposite to them as they ate. His legs were crossed under him, his hands were folded across his breast. He stared hard. He did nothing but stare. But this occupation seemed to afford him the fullest content.

Maurice said, "Nasty rude man," and shook his hand at him.

But Pericard, not understanding a single word of English, only laughed, and placidly continued his amusement.

Suddenly a thought came to Cecile:

"Pericard," she said, "Faubourg St. G——."

Pericard nodded, and looked intelligent.

"Oui," he answered, "Faubourg St. G——."

Cecile then got up, took his hand, and pointed first to the window then to the door. Then she touched herself and Maurice, and again said:

"Faubourg St. G——."

Pericard nodded again. He understood her perfectly.

"Oui, oui, Mam'selle," he said, and now he took Cecile's hand, and Cecile took Maurice's, and they went down into the street. They had only turned a corner, when Anton came up to the lodging. The old woman could but inform him that the children had gone out with Pericard. That she did not know when they would be back. That Joe also had gone away quite early.

Anton felt inclined to swear. He had made a nice little plan for this morning. He had sent Joe away on purpose. There was nothing now for it but to wait the children's return, as it would be worse than useless to pursue them over Paris. He only hoped, as he resigned himself to his fate, that they would return before Joe did.



CHAPTER XI.

THE FAUBOURG ST. G——.

Pericard was a genuine French lad. Perhaps few boys had undergone more hardships in his life; he had known starvation, he had known blows, he had felt in their extremity both winter's cold and summer's heat. True, his old grandmother gave him what she could, both of love and kindness. But the outside world had been decidedly rough on Pericard. An English boy would have shown this on his face. He would have appeared careworn, he would scarcely have seemed gay. Very far otherwise, however, was it with this French lad. His merry eyes twinkled continually. He laughed, he whistled, he danced. His misfortunes seemed to have no power to enter into him; they only swept around.

Had he then a shallow heart? Who can tell? He was a genuine specimen of the ordinary Paris gamin.

Pericard now much enjoyed the idea of taking Cecile and Maurice out to the rather distant suburb called the Faubourg St. G——.

He knew perfectly how to get there. He knew that Cecile, who understood no French wanted to find herself there. He understood nothing, and cared less for what her object was in going there.

He was to be her guide. He would lead her safely to this faubourg, and then back again to his grandmother's house.

Pericard, for all his rags, had something of a gentleman's heart.

He enjoyed guiding this very fair and pretty little lady.

Of course, Maurice and Toby came too. But Cecile was Pericard's princess on this occasion.

As they walked along, it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to treat his princess—to buy a dainty little breakfast from one or more of the venders who spread their tempting condiments on different stalls, as they passed. He might purchase some fruit, some chocolate, a roll, some butter. Then! how good these things would be, shared between him and the princess, and, of course, the little brother and the good dog, and eaten in that same faubourg, where the air must be a little better, purer than in Paris proper. If only he had the necessary sous?

Alas! he only possessed one centime, and that would buy no dainties worth mentioning.

As the funny little group walked along, Pericard steering straight and clear in the right direction, they saw an old Jew clothesman walking just in front of them. There was nothing particular about this old fellow. He was, doubtless, doing as lucrative a trade in Paris as elsewhere. But, nevertheless, Pericard's bright eyes lighted up at sight of him.

He felt hastily once again in his ragged coat; there rested his one centime. Nodding to Cecile and Maurice, and making signs that he would return instantly, he rushed after the old Jew—tore his coat from his back, and offered it for sale.

It was an old garment, greasy and much worn, but the lining was still good, and, doubtless, it helped to keep Pericard warm. Intent, however, now on the trick he meant to play, he felt no cold.

The old Jew salesman, who never on principle rejected the possible making of even a few sous, stopped to examine the shabby article. In deliberation as to its age, etc., he contrived also to feel the condition of its pockets. Instantly, as the boy hoped, he perceived the little piece of money. His greedy old face lit up. After thinking a moment, he offered one franc for the worthless garment.

Pericard could not part with it for a franc. Then he offered two. Pericard stuck out for three. He would give the greasy and ragged old coat for three francs. The Jew felt the pocket again. It was a large sum to risk for what in itself was not worth many sous; but, then, he might not have such a chance again. Finally, he made up his mind, and put three francs into Pericard's eager hand.

Instantly the old fellow pounced upon his hidden treasure. Behold! a solitary—a miserable centime. His rage knew no bounds! He called it an infamous robbery! He shouted to Pericard to take back his rags!

Whistling and laughing, the French boy exclaimed: "Pas si bete!" and then returned to the children.

Now, indeed, was Pericard happy. He nodded most vigorously to Cecile. He showed her his three francs. He tossed them in the air. He spun them before him on the dirty road. It seemed wonderful that he did not lose his treasures. Finally, after indulging in about six somersaults in succession, he deposited the coins in his mouth, and became grave after his own fashion again.

Now must he and the English children, for such he believed them, have the exquisite delight of spending this precious money. They turned into a street which resembled more an ordinary market than a street. Here were provisions in abundance; here were buyers and sellers; here was food of all descriptions. Each vender of food had his own particular stall, set up under his own particular awning. Pericard seemed to know the place well. Maurice screamed with delight at the sight of so much delicious food, and even patient Toby licked his chops, and owned to himself that their morning's breakfast had been very scanty.

Cecile alone—too intent on her mission to be hungry—felt little interest in the tempting stalls.

Pericard, however, began to lay in provisions judiciously. Here in this Rue de Sevres, were to be bought fruit, flowers, vegetables of all kinds, butter, cheese, cream, and even fish.

"Bonjour, Pere Bison," said Pericard, who, feeling himself rich, made his choice with care and deliberation.

This old man sold turkey eggs, cream-cheese, and butter. Pericard purchased a tiny piece of deliciously fresh-looking butter, a small morsel of cream-cheese, and three turkey eggs; at another stall he bought some rolls; at a third a supply of fresh and rosy apples. Thus provided, he became an object of immense attraction to Toby, and, it must be owned, also to Maurice.

As they walked along, in enforced silence, Pericard indulged in delicious meditations. What a moment that would be when they sucked those turkeys eggs! how truly delightful to see his dainty little princess enjoying her morsel of cream-cheese!

At last, after what seemed an interminable time, they reached the faubourg dreamed of so vividly the night before by Cecile. It was a large place, and also a very poor neighborhood.

Having arrived at their destination. Pericard pointed to the name on a lamp-post, spreading out his arms with a significant gesture; then, letting them drop to his sides, stood still. His object was accomplished. He now waited impatiently for the moment when they might begin their feast.

Cecile felt a strange fluttering at her heart; the place was so large, the streets so interminable. Where, how, should she find the lady with the English name?

Pericard was now of no further use. He must follow where she led. She walked on, her steps flagging—despondency growing at her heart.

Was her dream then not real after all? Ah, yes! it must, it must be a Heaven-sent warning. Was not Joseph warned of God in a dream? Was he not told where to go and what to do?—just as Cecile herself had been told by the blessed Lord Himself. Only an angel had come to Joseph, but Jesus Himself had counseled Cecile. Yes, she was now in the faubourg—she must presently find the lady bearing the English name.

The Faubourg St. G—— was undoubtedly a poor suburb, but just even when Pericard's patience began to give way, the children saw a row of houses taller and better than any they had hitherto come across. The English lady must live there. Cecile again, with renewed hope and confidence, walked down the street. At the sixth house she stopped, and a cry of joy, of almost rapture, escaped her lips. Amid all the countless foreign words and names stood a modest English one on a neat door painted green. In the middle of a shining brass plate appeared two very simple, very common words—"Miss Smith."



CHAPTER XII.

THE WINSEY FROCK.

Her voice almost trembling with suppressed excitement, Cecile turned to her little brother.

"Maurice, Miss Smith lives here. She is an English lady. I must see her. You will stay outside with Pericard, Maurice; and Toby will take care of you. Don't go away. Just walk up and down. I shan't be long; and, Maurice, you won't go away?"

"No" answered Maurice, "I won't run away. I will eat some of that nice breakfast without waiting for you, Cecile; for I am hungry, but I won't run away."

Then Maurice took Pericard's hand. Toby wagged his tail knowingly, and Cecile ran up the steps of Miss Smith's house. A young girl, with the round fresh face of old England, answered her modest summons.

"Yes," she said, "Miss Smith was at home." She would inquire if she could see the little girl from London. She invited Cecile to step into the hall; and a moment or two later showed her into a very small, neatly furnished parlor. This small room was quite in English fashion, and bore marks of extreme neatness, joined to extremely slender means.

Cecile stood by the round table in the center of the room. She had now taken her purse from the bosom of her dress, and when Miss Smith entered, she came up to her at once, holding it in her hand.

"If you please," said Cecile, "Jesus the Guide says you will take care of this for me. He sent me to you, and said you would take great, great care of my money. 'Tis all quite right. Will you open the purse, please? 'Tis a Russia-leather purse, and there's forty pounds in it, and about eleven or twelve more, I think. I must have some to take me and Maurice and Toby down south. But Jesus says you will take great care of the rest."

"Child," said Miss Smith. She was a very little woman, with a white, thin, and worn face. She looked nearer fifty than forty. Her hair was scanty and gray. When Cecile offered her the purse she flushed painfully, stepped back a pace or two, and pushed it from her.

"Child," she repeated, "are you mad, or is it Satan is sending you here? Pretty little girl, with the English tongue, do you know that I am starving?"

"Oh!" said Cecile. Her face showed compassion, but she did not attempt to take up her purse. On the contrary, she left it on the table close to Miss Smith, and retreated to the farther side herself.

"Starving means being very, very hungry," said Cecile. "I know what that means, just a little. It is a bad feeling. I am sorry. There is a turkey egg waiting for me outside. I will fetch it for you in a moment. But you are quite wrong in saying it was Satan sent me to you. I don't know anything about Satan. It was the blessed, blessed Jesus the Guide sent me. He came last night in a dream. He told me to go to the Faubourg St. G—— and I should find an English lady, and she would take great care of my Russia-leather purse. It was a true warning, just as Joseph's dream was true. He was warned of God in a dream, just as I was last night."

"And I am the only Englishwoman in the faubourg," said Miss Smith. "I have lived here for ten years now, and I never heard of any other. I teach, or, rather, I did teach English in a Pension de Demoiselles close by, and I have been dismissed. I was thought too old-fashioned. I can't get any more employment, and I had just broken into my last franc piece when you came. I might have done without food, but Molly was so hungry. Molly is going to-morrow, and I shall be alone. Yes, little English girl, you do right to reprove me. I, too, have loved the Lord Jesus. Sit down! Sit down on that chair, and tell me, in my own dear tongue, the story of that purse."

"I am not an English girl," said Cecile; "I am French; I come from the south, from the Pyrenees; but my father brought me to England when I was two years old, and I don't know any French. My father died, and I had a stepmother; and my stepmother died, and when she was dying she gave me a charge. It was a great charge, and it weighs heavily on my heart, and makes me feel very old. My stepmother had a daughter who ran away from her when she married my father. My stepmother thinks she went to France, and got lost in France, and she gave me a purse of money—some to give to Lovedy, and some to spend in looking for her. I feel that Lovedy has gone south, and I am going down south, too, to find her. I, and my little brother, and our dog, and a big, kind boy—we are all going south to find Lovedy. And last night Jesus the Guide came to me in a dream, and told me that my purse was in danger, and He told me to come to you. Satan had nothing at all to say to it. It was Jesus sent me to you."

"I believe you, child," said Miss Smith. "You bring the strangest tale, but I believe you. You bring a purse containing a lot of money to a starving woman. Well, I never was brought so low as not to be honest yet. How much money is in the purse, little girl?"

"There are four ten-pound notes—that makes forty pounds," said Cecile—"that is Lovedy's money; there are about eleven pounds of the money I must spend. You must give me that eleven pounds, please, Miss Smith, and you must keep the forty pounds very, very safely until I come for it, or send for it."

"What is your name, little girl?"

"Cecile D'Albert."

"Well, Cecile, don't you think that if you had a dream about the forty pounds being in danger, that the eleven pounds will be in danger too? Someone must have guessed you had that money, little one, and and if they can't get hold of the forty pounds, they will take the eleven."

Cecile felt herself growing a trifle pale.

"I never thought of that," she said. "I cannot look for Lovedy without a little money. What shall I do, Miss Smith?"

"Let me think," said Miss Smith.

She rested her chin on her hand and one or two puckers came into her brow, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth. After a moment or two her face brightened.

"Is the money English money, little girl?" she said.

"Yes," answered Cecile; "the captain on board the boat from England did change some, but all the French money is gone now."

"That won't do at all, Cecile; you must have French money. Now, my dear, will you kindly take that eleven pounds out of your purse and reckon it before me?"

Cecile did so—eleven sovereigns lay glittering and tempting on Miss Smith's table.

"There, child, I am going to put on my bonnet and shawl, and I shall take that money out with me, and be back again in a few moments. You wait here, Cecile, I will bring back French money; you watch your purse until I return."

While Miss Smith was out, there came a ring to the door bell, and the little fresh-colored English servant brought in a letter, and laid it beside the purse which Cecile stood near, but did not offer to touch.

In about twenty minutes Miss Smith reappeared. She looked excited, and even cheerful.

"It does me good to help one of the Lord's little ones," she said, "and it does me good to hear the English tongue; except from Molly, I never hear it now, and Molly goes to-morrow. Well, never mind. Now, Cecile, listen to me. Do you see this bag? It is big, and heavy, it is full of your money; twenty-five francs for every sovereign—two hundred and seventy-five francs in all. You could not carry that heavy bag about with you; it would be discovered, and you would be robbed at once.

"But I have hit on a plan. See! I have brought in another parcel —this parcel contains cotton wool. I perceive that little frock you have on has three tucks in it. I am going to unpick those tucks, and line them softly with cotton wool, and lay the francs in the cotton wool. I will do it cleverly, and no one will guess that any money could be hidden in that common little winsey frock. Now, child, you slip it off, and I will put the money in, and I will give you a needle and thread and a nice little sharp scissors, and every night when folks are quite sound asleep, and you are sure no one is looking, you must unpick enough of one of the tucks to take out one franc, or two francs, according as you want them; only be sure you sew the tuck up again. The money will make the frock a trifle heavy, and you must never take it off your back whatever happens until you get to the English girl; but I can hit on no better plan,"

"I think it is a lovely, lovely plan," said Cecile, and then she slipped off the little frock, and Miss Smith wrapped her carefully in an old shawl of her own; and the next two hours were spent in skillfully lining the tucks with their precious contents.

When this was finished Miss Smith got a hot iron, and ironed the tucks so skillfully that they looked as flat as they had done before. Some of the money, also, she inserted in the body of the frock, and thus enriched, it was once more put on by Cecile.

"Now, Cecile," said Miss Smith, "I feel conceited, for I don't believe anyone will ever think of looking there for your money; and I am to keep the Russia-leather purse and the forty pounds and they are for an English girl called Lovedy. How shall I know her when she comes, or will you only return to fetch them yourself, little one?"

"I should like that best" said Cecile; "but I might die, or be very ill, and then Lovedy would never get her money. Miss Smith, perhaps you will write something on a little bit of paper, and then give the paper to me, and if I cannot come myself I will give the paper to Lovedy, or somebody else; when you see your own bit of paper again, then you will know that you are to give Lovedy's purse to the person who gives you the paper."

"That is not a bad plan," said Miss Smith; "at least," she added, "I can think of no better. I will write something then for you, Cecile."

She forthwith provided herself with a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote as follows:

"Received this day of Cecile D'Albert the sum of Forty Pounds, in four Bank of England notes, inclosed in a Russia-leather purse. Will return purse and money to the bearer of this paper whoever that person may be.

"So help me God. HANNAH SMITH."

As Hannah Smith added those words, "So help me God," a deep flush came to her pale face and the thin hand that held the pen trembled.

"There, Cecile," she said, "you must keep that little piece of paper even more carefully than the money, for anyone who secured this might claim the money. I will sew it into your frock myself." Which the good soul did; and then the old maid blessed the child, and she went away.

Long after Cecile had left her, Miss Smith sat on by the table—that purse untouched by her side.

"A sudden and sore temptation," she said, at last, aloud. "But it did not last. So help me God, it will never return—SO HELP ME GOD."

Then she fell on her knees and began to pray, and as she prayed she wept.

It was nearly an hour before the lonely Englishwoman rose from her knees. When she did so, she took up the purse to put it by. In doing this, she for the first time noticed the letter which had arrived when she was out. She opened it, read it hastily through. Then Miss Smith, suddenly dropping both purse and letter fell on her knees again.

The letter contained the offer of a much better situation as English teacher than the one she had been deprived of. Thus did God send both the temptation and the deliverance almost simultaneously.



CHAPTER XIII.

A MIDNIGHT SEARCH.

Anton had to wait a long time, until he felt both cross and impatient, and when at last Cecile and Maurice returned to the funny little attic in the Cite, Joe almost immediately followed them.

Joe told the children that he had made very exact inquiries, and that he believed they might start for the south the next day. He spoke, of course, in English, and, never supposing that Anton knew a word of that tongue was at no pains to refrain from discussing their plans in his presence.

Anton, apparently engaged in puffing a pipe in a corner of the room with his eyes half shut, looking stupid and half asleep, of course took in every word.

"They would start early the next morning. Oh, yes! they were more than welcome; they might go to the south, the farther from him the better, always provided that he secured the purse first."

As he smoked, he laid his plans. He was quite sure that one of the children had the purse. He suspected the one to be Joe. But to make sure, he determined to search all three.

He must search the children that night. How should he accomplish his search?

He thought. Bad ideas came to him. He went out.

He went straight to a chemist's, and bought a small quantity of a certain powder. This powder, harmless in its after-effects, would cause very sound slumber. He brought in, and contrived, unseen by anyone, to mix it in the soup which the old grandmother was preparing for the evening meal. All—Pericard, Toby—all should partake of this soup. Then all would sleep soundly, and the field would be open for him; for he, Anton, would be careful not to touch any.

He had made arrangements before with the old grandmother to have a shake-down for the night in one of her rooms; from there it would be perfectly easy to step into the little attic occupied by the children, and secure the precious purse.

His plans were all laid to perfection, and when he saw six hungry people and a dog partaking eagerly of good Mme. Pericard's really nourishing soup, he became quite jocund in his glee.

An hour afterward the drugged food had taken effect. There was not a sound in the attics. Anton waited yet another hour, then, stepping softly in his stockinged feet, he entered the little room, where he felt sure the hidden treasure awaited him.

He examined Joe first. The lad was so tired, and the effect of the drug so potent, that Anton could even turn him over without disturbing his slumbers. But, alas! feel as he would, there was no purse about Joe—neither concealed about his person, nor hidden under his pillow, was any trace of what Anton hoped and longed to find. Half a franc he took, indeed, out of the lad's pocket—half a franc and a couple of centimes; but that was all.

Anton had to own to himself that whoever had the purse, Joe had it not.

He went over to the next bed, and examined little Maurice. He even turned Toby about.

Last of all, he approached where Cecile lay. Cecile, secure in her perfect trust in the heavenly Guide, sure of the righteousness of her great quest, was sleeping as such little ones sleep. Blessed dreams were filling her peaceful slumbers, and there is no doubt that angels were guarding her.

The purity of the white face on which the moon shone filled the bad man who approached her with a kind of awe. He did not call the feeling that possessed him by that name; nevertheless, he handled the child reverently.

He felt under the pillow, he felt in the little frock. Ah! good and clever Miss Smith! so thoroughly, so well had she done her work, that no touch of hard metal came to Anton's fingers, no suspicion of the money so close to him entered his head.

Having heard at Warren's Grove of a purse, it never occurred to him to expect money in any other way. No trace of that Russia-leather purse was to be found about Cecile. After nearly an hour spent in prowling about, he had to leave the children's room discomfited; discomfited truly, and also not wholly unpunished. For Toby, who had been a good deal satisfied with rolls and morsels of butter, in the feast made earlier in the day by Pericard, had taken so sparingly of the soup that he was very slightly drugged, and Anton's movements, becoming less cautious as he perceived how heavy was the sleep over the children, at last managed to wake the dog. What instinct was over Toby I know not. But he hated Anton. He now followed him unperceived from the room, and, just as he got into the passage outside, managed to insert his strong teeth deep into his leg. The pain was sharp and terrible, and the thief dared not scream. He hit Toby a blow, but not a very hard one, for the dog was exactly behind him. Toby held on for a moment or two, ascertained that the wound was both deep and painful, then retreated to take up his post by Cecile's pillow. Nor did the faithful creature close his eyes again that night. Anton, too, lay awake. Angry and burning were his revengeful thoughts. He was more determined than ever to find the purse, not to let his victims escape him. As to Toby, he would kill him if he could. There seemed little doubt now that the children had not the purse with them. Still Anton remembered Joe's confused manner when he had sounded him on the subject of money. Anton felt sure that Joe knew where the purse was. How could he force his secret from the lad? How could he make him declare where the gold was hidden? A specious, plausible man, Anton had, as I before said, made friends with Joe. Joe in a moment of ill-advised confidence had told to Anton his own sad history. Anton pondering over it now in the darkness, for there was no moon shining into his bedroom, felt that he could secure a very strong hold over the lad.

Joe had been apprenticed to a Frenchman, who taught him to dance and play the fiddle. Anton wondered what the law bound these apprentices to. He had a hazy idea that, if they ran away, the punishment was severe. He hoped that Joe had broken the law. Anton resolved to learn more about these apprentice laws. For this purpose he rose very early in the morning and went out. He was absent for about two hours. When he returned he had learned enough to make up a bad and frightening tale. Truly his old plans had been defeated in the night. But in the morning he had made even worse than these. He came in to find the children awakening from the effects of their long slumber, and Joe audibly lamenting that they were not already on their way.

"Not yet," said Anton, suddenly dropping his French and speaking to the astonished children in English as good as their own, "I have a word to say about that same going away. You come out with me for a bit, my lad."

Joe, still heavy from the drug, and too amazed to refuse, even if he wished to do so, stumbled to his feet and obeyed.

Cecile and Maurice chatted over the wonderful fact of Anton knowing English, and waited patiently. There was no Pericard to amuse them to-day; he had gone out long ago. They waited one hour—two hours—three hours, still no Joe appeared. At the end of about four hours there was a languid step on the stairs, and the lad who had gone away—God knows with how tranquil a heart—reappeared.

Where was his gayety? Where had the light in his dark eyes vanished to? His hands trembled. Fear was manifest on his face. He came straight up to Cecile, and clasping her little hands between both his own, which trembled violently, spoke.

"Oh, Cecile! he's a bad man. He's a bad, bad man, and I am ruined. We're all ruined, Cecile. Is there any place we can hide in—is there any place? I must speak to you, and he'll be back in half an hour. I must speak to you, Cecile, before he comes back."

"Let's run away," said Cecile promptly. "Let's run away at once before he comes again. There must be lots of hiding places in Paris. Oh! here's Pericard. Pericard, I know, is faithful. You ask Pericard to hide us, Joe. To hide us at once before Anton comes back."



CHAPTER XIV.

A PLAN.

Cecile, impelled by some instinct, had said: "I know Pericard is faithful."

Joe, now turning to the French boy, repeated these few words in his best French:

"She says she knows you are faithful. We are in great danger—in great danger from that bad man Anton. Will you hide us and not betray us?"

To this appeal Cecile had added power by coming up and taking Pericard's hand. He gave a look of devotion to his little princess, nodded to Joe, and, bidding them all follow him, and quickly, left the room.

Down the stairs he took the children, down, down, down! at last they reached the cellars. The cellars, too, were full of human beings; but interested in their own most varied pursuits and callings, they took little notice of the children. They went through one set of cellars, then through another, then through a third. At the third Pericard stopped.

"You are safe here," he said. "These cellars have nothing to say to our house. No one lives in them. They are to be let next week. They are empty now. You will only have the company of the rats here. Don't be afraid of them. If you don't fight them they won't come nigh you, and, anyhow, Toby will keep 'em away. I'll be back when it grows dark. Don't stir till I return. Anton shan't find you here. Little Miss is right. Pericard will be faithful."

After having delivered this little speech in French, Pericard turned a rusty key in a lock behind the children, then let himself out by an underground passage directly into the street.

"Now, Joe," said Cecile, coming up at once to where the poor boy was standing, "we are safe here, safe for a little. What is the matter? What is wrong, dear Joe?"

"Maurice must not hear," said Joe; "it will only make things still harder if little Maurice hears what I have got to say."

"Maurice will not care to hear. See, how sleepy he looks? There is some straw in that corner, some nice clean straw; Maurice shall lie down on it, and go to sleep. I can't make out why we are all so sleepy; but Maurice shall have a good sleep, and then you can talk to me. Toby will stay close to Maurice."

To this arrangement Maurice himself made no objection. He could scarcely keep his eyes open, and the moment he found himself on the bed of straw was sound asleep.

Toby, in obedience to Cecile's summons, sat down by his side, and then the little girl returned to Joe.

"No one can hear us now. What is wrong, Jography?"

"This is wrong," said Joe, in a low, despairing voice: "I'm a ruined lad. Ef I don't rob you, and become a thief, I'm a quite ruined lad. I'll never, never see my mother nor my brother Jean. I'm quite ruined, Missie, dear."

"But how, Joe. How?"

"Missie, that man wot come wid us all the way from Normandy, he's a spy and a thief. He wants yer purse, Missie, darling, and he says as he'll get it come what may. He wor at that farm in Kent when you was there, and he heard all about the purse, and he wor determined to get it. That wor why he tried to make friends wid us, and would not let out as he knew a word of English. Then last night he put some'ut in the soup to make us hall sleep sound, and he looked for the purse and he could not find it; and this morning he called me away, to say as he knows my old master wot I served in Lunnon, and that I wor apprenticed quite proper to him, and that by the law I could not run away without being punished. He said, Anton did, that he would lock me hup in prison this werry day, and then go and find Massenger, and give me back to him. I am never, never to see my old mother now. For I'm to go to prison if I don't give up yer purse to Anton, Missie."

"But you would not take the Russia-leather purse that I was given to take care of for Lovedy? You would rather be shut up in prison than touch my purse or gold?" said Cecile.

It was nearly dark in the cellar; but the child's eyes shining with a steadfast light, were looking full at Joe. He returned their gaze as steadfastly.

"Missie, dear, 'tis a hard thing to give up seeking of yer own mother, and to go back to blows and starvation. But Joe 'ull do it. He once said, Missie Cecile, that he'd rayther be cut in pieces nor touch that purse o' gold. This is like being cut in pieces. But I'll stand up to wot I said. I'll go wid Anton when he comes back. But wot puzzles me is, how he'll get the purse from you, Missie? and how ere you two little mites ever to find Lovedy without your Joe to guide yer?"

"Yes, Joe, you shall guide us; for now I have got something to say —such a wonderful, wonderful thing, Joe dear."

Then Cecile related all about her strange dream, all about Pericard taking them to the Faubourg St. G——, then of her finding Miss Smith, of her intrusting the purse to Miss Smith, and finally of the clever, clever manner in which Miss Smith had sewn the money that was necessary to take them to the south of France into her little winsey frock. All this did Cecile tell with glowing cheeks and eager voice, and only one mistake did she make. For, trusting Joe fully, she showed him the little piece of paper which anyone presenting to Miss Smith could obtain the purse in exchange.

Poor Joe! he bitterly rued that knowledge by and by, but now his feelings were all thankfulness.

"Then Anton can't get the purse: you ha'n't got it to give to him!"

"No; and if he comes and finds us, I will tell him so my own self; it won't do him no good putting you in prison, for he shan't never get Lovedy's purse."

"Thank God," said Joe, in a tone of deep and great relief. "Oh! Missie, that's a good, good guide o' your'n, and poor Joe 'ull love Him now."

"Yes, Jography, was it not lovely, lovely of Him? I know He means you to go on taking care of us little children; and, Jography, I'm only quite a little girl, but I've got a plan in my head, and you must listen. My Aunt Lydia wanted to get the purse; and me and Maurice, we ran away from her and afterward we saw her again in London, and she wanted our purse we were sure, and then we ran away again. Now, Joe, could not we run away this time too? Why should we see that wicked, wicked Anton any more?"

"Yes, Missie, but he's werry clever; werry clever indeed, Anton is, and he 'ud foller of us; he knows 'tis down south we're going, and he'd come down south too."

"Yes; but, Joe, perhaps south is a big place, as big as London or Paris, it might not be so easy for him to find us; you might get safe back to your old mother and your good brother Jean, and I might see Lovedy before Anton had found us again, then we should not care what he did; and, Jography, what I've been thinking is that as we're in great danger, it can't be wrong to spend just a franc or two out of my winsey frock on you, and when Pericard comes back this evening I'll ask him to direct us to some place where a train can take us all a good bit of the way. You don't know how fast the train took me and Maurice and Toby to London, and perhaps it would take us a good bit of the way south so that Anton could not find us; that is my plan, Joe, and you won't have to go to prison, Joe, dear."



CHAPTER XV.

AN ESCAPE.

It was very late, in fact quite night, when Pericard returned. By this time the rats had come out in troops, and even Toby could scarcely keep them at bay. He barked, however, loudly, and ran about, and so kept them from absolutely attacking the children. By this, however, he exposed them to another danger, for his noise must soon have been heard in the street above, and it was well for them that the cellar in which they were hiding was not in the same house with Anton.

It was, as I said, quite late at night when Pericard arrived. He let himself in, not by the entrance through which he had come previously, but by the underground passage. He carried a dark lantern in one hand, and a neat little basket in the other. Never was knight of old more eagerly welcomed than was this French boy now by the poor little prisoners. They were all cold and hungry, and the rushing and scraping of the rats had filled their little hearts with most natural alarm.

Pericard came in softly, and laying down his dark lantern proceeded to unpack the contents of the basket. It contained cold sausages, broken bits of meat, and some rolls buttered and cut in two: there was also a pint bottle of vin ordinaire.

Pericard broke the neck of the bottle on the cellar wall. He then gave the children a drink by turns in a little tin mug.

"And now," he said in French, "we must be off. Anton is in the house; he is waiting for you all; he is roaring with anger and rage; he would be out looking for you, but luckily—or you could not escape —he is lame. The brave good dog bit him severely in the leg, and now he cannot walk; and the grandmere has to poultice his leg. He thinks I have gone to fetch you, for I pretend to be on his side. You have just to-night to get away in; but I don't answer for the morning, for Anton is so dying to get hold of Joe there that he will use his leg, however he suffers, after to-night. You have just this one short night in which to make your escape."

Then Joe told Cecile's plan to Pericard, and Pericard nodded, and said it was good—only he could not help opening his eyes very widely at the idea of three such little beggars, as he termed the children, being able to afford the luxury of going by train. As, however, it was impossible and, dangerous to confide in him any further, and as Cecile had already given Joe the number of francs they thought they should require out of her frock, he had to bear his curiosity in silence.

Pericard, who was well up to Paris, and knew not only every place of amusement, nearly every stall-owner, nearly every trade, and every possible way of securing a sou, but also had in his head a fund of odd knowledge with regard to railway stations, could now counsel the children what station to go to, and even what train to take on their way south.

He said they would probably be in time if they started at once to catch a midnight train to Orleans; that for not too large a sum they might travel third-class to Orleans, which city they would reach the next morning. It was a large place, and as it would be impossible for Anton to guess that they had gone by train at all, they would have such a good start of him that he would probably not be able to find them again.

Pericard also proposed that they should start at once, and as they had no money to spare for cabs or omnibuses, they must walk to the distant terminus from which they must start for the south. How strange they felt as they walked through the gayly-lighted streets! How tired was Maurice! how delighted Joe! how dreamy and yet calm and trustful, was Cecile. Since the vision about her purse, her absolute belief in her Guide knew no bounds.

As near and dear, as certain and present, was He now to Cecile as if in reality he was holding her little hand; as if in reality He was carrying tired Maurice. He was there, the Goal was certain, the End sure. When they got to the great big terminus she still felt dreamlike, allowing Joe and Pericard to get their tickets and make all arrangements. Then the children and dog found themselves in a third-class compartment. Toby was well and skillfully hidden under the seat, the whistle sounded, and Pericard came close and took Cecile's hand. She was only a little child, but she was his princess, the first sweet and lovely thing he had ever seen. Cecile raised her lips to kiss him.

"Good-by, Pericard—good Pericard—faithful Pericard."

Then the train pulled slowly out of the station, and the children were carried into the unknown darkness, and Pericard went home. He never saw the children again. But all through his after-life he carried a memory about with him of them, and when he heard of the good God and the angels, this wild Paris lad would cross himself devoutly, and think of Cecile.



CHAPTER XVI.

CHILDREN'S ARCADIA.

It was early spring in the south of France—spring, and delicious, balmy weather. All that dreadful cold of Normandy seemed like a forgotten dream. It was almost impossible to believe that the limbs that ached under that freezing atmosphere could be the same that now felt the sun almost oppressive.

Little Maurice had the desire of his heart, for the sun shone all day long. He could pick flowers and smell sweet country air, and the boy born under these sunny skies revived like a tropical plant beneath their influence. It was a month now since the children had left Paris. They had remained for a day or so in Orleans, and then had wandered on, going farther and farther south, until at last they had passed the great seaport town of Bordeaux, and found themselves in the monotonous forests of the Landes. The scenery was not pretty here. The ground was flat, and for miles and miles around them swept an interminable growth of fir trees, each tall and straight, many having their bark pierced, and with small tin vessels fastened round their trunks to catch the turpentine which oozed slowly out. These trees, planted in long straight rows, and occupying whole leagues of country, would have been wearisome to eyes less occupied, to hearts less full, than those that looked out of the faces and beat in the breasts of the children who on foot still pursued their march. For in this forest Cecile's heart had revived. Before she reached Bordeaux she often had felt her hope fading. She had believed that her desire could never be accomplished, for, inquire as they would, they could get in none of the towns or villages they passed through any tidings of Lovedy. No one knew anything of an English girl in the least answering to her description. Many smiled almost pityingly on the eager little seekers, and thought the children a trifle mad to venture on so hopeless a search.

But here, in the Landes, were villages innumerable—small villages, sunny and peaceful, where simple and kind-hearted folks lived, and barndoor-fowl strutted about happily, and the goats browsed, and sheep fed; and the people in these tiny villages were very kind to the little pilgrims, and gave them food and shelter gladly and cheerfully, and answered all the questions which Cecile put through her interpreter, Joe, about Lovedy. Though there were no tidings of the blue-eyed girl who had half-broken her mother's heart, Cecile felt that here surely, or in some such place as here, she should find Lovedy, for were not these exactly the villages her stepmother had described when she lay a-dying? So Cecile trudged on peacefully, and each day dawned with a fresh desire. Joe, too, was happy; he had lost his fear of Anton. Anton could never surely pursue him here. There was no danger now of his being forced back to that old dreadful life. The hardships, the cold, the beatings, the starvings, lay behind him; he was a French boy again. Soon someone would call him by his old forgotten name of Alphonse, and he should look into his mother's eyes, and then go out among the vineyards with his brother Jean. Yes, Joe was very happy, he was loved and he loved; he was useful, too, necessary indeed to the children; and every day brought him nearer to his beloved Pyrenees. Once amongst those mountains, he had a sort of idea that he soon should roll off that seven years of London cruelty and defilement, and become a happy and innocent child again.

Of course, Maurice was joyful in the Landes; he liked the south, it was sunny and good, and he liked the kind peasant-women, who all petted the pretty boy, and fed him on the freshest of eggs and richest of goat's milk. But, perhaps, of all the little pilgrims, Toby was now the happiest—the most absolutely contented. Not a cloud hung over Toby's sky, not a care lingered in his mind.

He was useful too—indeed he was almost the breadwinner of the little party. For Joe had at last taught Toby to dance, and to dance with skill quite remarkable in a dog of his age. No one knew what Toby suffered in learning that rather ponderous dance; how stiff his poor legs felt, how weak his back, how hard he had to struggle to keep his balance. But from the day that Joe had rescued the children in the snow, Toby had become so absolutely his friend, had so completely withdrawn the fear with which at first he had regarded him, that now, for very love of Joe, he would do what he told him. He learned to dance, and from the time the children left Bordeaux, he had really by this one accomplishment supported the little party.

In the villages of the Landes the people were simple and innocent, they cared very little about centimes, sous, or francs; but they cared a great deal about amusement; and when Joe played his fiddle and Toby danced, they were so delighted, and so thoroughly enjoyed the sport, that in return they gave supper, bed, and breakfast to the whole party free of charge.

Thus Cecile's winsey frock still contained a great many francs put away toward a rainy day; for, since they entered the Landes, the children not only spent nothing, but lived better than they had ever done before.

Thus the days went on, and it all seemed very Arcadian and very peaceful, and no one guessed that a serpent could possibly come into so fair and innocent an Eden.



CHAPTER XVII.

MAURICE TAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF AFFAIRS.

After many weeks of wandering about, the children found themselves in a little village, about three miles from the town of Arcachon. This village was in the midst of a forest covering many thousand acres of land. They had avoided the seaport town of Arcachon, dreading its fashionable appearance; but they hailed the little village with delight.

It was a pretty place, peaceful and sunny; and here the people cultivated their vines and fruit trees, and lived, the poorer folks quite in the village, the better-off inhabitants in neat farmhouses close by. These farmhouses were in the midst of fields, with cattle browsing in the meadows.

Altogether, the village was the most civilized-looking place the children had stopped at since they entered what had been a few years ago the dreary desert of the Landes. Strange to say, however, here, for the first time, the weary little pilgrims met with a cold reception. The people in the village of Moulleau did not care for boys who played the fiddle, and dogs that tried clumsily to accompany it. They looked with a fine lack of sympathy at Cecile's pathetic blue eyes, and Maurice was nothing more to them than a rather dirty little sunburnt boy.

One or two of the inns even refused the children a night's lodging for money, and so disagreeable did those that did take them in make themselves that after the first night Cecile and Joe determined to sleep in the forest close by. it was now April, the weather was delicious, and in the forest of pines and oak trees not a breath of wind ever seemed to enter. Joe, looking round, found an old tumbledown hut. In the hut was a pile of dry pine needles. These pine needles made a much snugger bed than they had found in a rather dirty inn in the village; and, still greater an advantage, they could use this pleasant accommodation free of all charge.

It was, indeed, necessary to economize, for the francs sewn into the winsey frock would come to an end by and by.

The children found to their dismay that they had by no means taken a direct road to the Pyrenees, but had wandered about, and had been misdirected many times.

There was one reason, however, which induced Cecile to stay for a few days in the forest close to the village of Moulleau.

This was the reason: Amongst the many sunny farms around, was one, the smallest there, but built on a slight eminence, and resembling in some slight and vague way, not so much its neighbors, as the low-roofed, many-thatched English farmhouse of Warren's Grove. Cecile felt fascinated by this farm with its English frontage. She could not explain either her hopes or her fears with regard to it. But an unaccountable desire was over her to remain in the forest for a short time before they proceeded on their journey.

"Let us rest here just one day longer," she would plead in her gentle way; and Joe, though seeing no reason for what seemed like unnecessary delay, nevertheless yielded to her demand.

He was not idle himself. As neither fiddling nor dancing seemed to pay, he determined to earn money in some other manner; so, as there were quantities of fir cones in the forests, he collected great piles and took them into Arcachon for sale.

While Joe was away, sometimes accompanied by Maurice, sometimes alone, Cecile would yield to that queer fascination, which seemed unaccountable, and wander silently, and yet with a certain anxiety to the borders of that English-looking farm.

Never did she dare to venture within its precincts. But she would come to the edge of the paling which divided its rich meadows from the road, and watch the cattle browsing, and the cocks, and hens, and ducks and geese, going in and out, with wistful and longing eyes.

Once, from under the low and pretty porch, she saw a child run eagerly, with shouts of laughter. This child, aged about two, had golden hair and a fair skin. Cecile had seen no child like him in the village. He Looked like an English boy. How did he and that English-looking farm get into the sequestered forest of the Landes?

After seeing the child, Cecile went back to her hut, sat down on the pine needles, and began to think.

Never yet had she obtained the faintest clew to her search.

Looking everywhere for blue eyes and golden hair, it seemed to Cecile that such things had faded from the earth. And now! but no, what would bring the English girl Lovedy there?

Why should Lovedy be at Moulleau more than at any other village in the Landes? and in any case what had the English-looking child to say to Lovedy?

Cecile determined to put any vague hopes out of her head. They must leave Moulleau the next morning; that she had promised Joe. Whenever Lovedy did come across their path, she would come in very different guise. But still, try as she would, Cecile's thoughts returned over and over again to the golden-haired laddie, and these thoughts, which came almost against her will, might have led to results which would have quickly solved her difficulties, but for an event which occurred just then.

This event, terrible and anxious, put all remembrance of the English farm and English child far from her mind.

Joe had made rather a good day at Arcachon selling his pine cones; and Maurice, who had gone with him, and had tried in his baby fashion to help him, had returned to the hut very tired, and so sleepy that, after eating a little bread and fruit, he lay down on the pine needles and went sound asleep. Generally tired and healthy, little Maurice slept without moving until the morning. But this night, contrary to his wont, he found himself broad awake before Cecile or Joe had lain down. Joe, a lighted fir cone in his hand, which he carefully guarded from the dry pine needles, was sitting close to Cecile, who was reading aloud to him out of the Testament which Mrs. Moseley had given to her. Cecile read aloud to Joe every night, and this time her solemn little voice stumbled slowly over the words, "He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me."

"I think as that is a bit hard," interrupted Joe. "I wonder ef Jesus could tell wot a hankering a feller has fur his mother when he ain't seen her fur seven years? Why, Miss Cecile, I'm real starved fur my mother. I dreams of her hevery night, and I feels as tho' we 'ud never, never get back to the dear blue mountains again. No," continued Joe, shaking his dark head, "I never, never could love Jesus better nor my mother."

"I don't remember my mother," said Cecile; "and I think I love Jesus the Guide even better than I love Maurice. But oh, Joe, I'm a selfish little girl. I ought not to stay on here when you want to see your mother so very badly. We will start to your mountains quite, quite early in the morning, Joe."

"Thank yer, Missie," said Joe, with a very bright smile; and then, having put the pine carefully out, the two children also lay down to sleep.

But little Maurice, who had heard every word, was still quite wide awake. Maurice, who loved his forest life, and who quite hated these long and enforced marches, felt very cross. Why should they begin to walk again? He had no interest in these long and interminable rambles. How often his feet used to ache! How blistered they often were! And now that the weather was so warm and sunny, little Maurice got tired even sooner than in the winter's cold. No; what he loved was lying about under the pine trees, and watching the turpentine trickling very slowly into the tin vessels fastened to their trunks; and then he liked to look at the squirrels darting merrily from bough to bough, and the rabbits running about, and the birds flying here and there. This was the life Maurice loved. This was south. Cecile had always told him they were going south. Well, was not this south, this pleasant, balmy forest-land. What did they want with anything further? Maurice reflected with dismay over the tidings that they were to leave quite early in the morning. He felt inclined to cry, to wake Cecile, to get her to promise not to go. Suddenly an idea, and what he considered quite a brilliant idea, entered his baby mind. Cecile and Joe had arranged to commence their march quite early in the morning. Suppose—suppose he, Maurice, slipped softly from the old hut and hid himself in the forest. Why, then, they would not go; they would never dream of leaving Maurice behind. He could come back to them when the sun was high in the heavens; and then Joe would pronounce it too hot to go on any journey that day. Thus he would secure another long day in his beloved woods.



CHAPTER XVIII.

AN OGRE IN THE WOOD.

Full of his idea, Maurice slept very little more that night. He tossed from side to side on the pine needles. But though he felt often drowsy, he was afraid to yield to the sensation; and early, very early in the morning, before the sun had risen, he got up. Going to the door of the hut, he stood there for a moment or so looking down into the forest. Just around the little hut there was a clearing of trees; but the forest itself looked dark. The trees cast long shadows, and Maurice felt rather nervous at the idea of venturing into their gloom. Suddenly, however, he heard a bird sing clear and sweet up into the sky, and the next moment two squirrels darted past his feet.

These two events decided him: the day was coming on apace, and soon Cecile and Joe would wake and begin to prepare for their journey. Without waiting to look around, he stepped into the dark shadows of the trees; and, in a moment, his little figure was lost in the gloom. To enable him to creep very quietly away—so quietly that even Toby should not awake—he had decided not to put on his shoes and stockings, and he now ran along the grass with his bare feet. He liked the sensation. The grass felt both cool and soft, and he began to wonder why he had ever troubled himself with such clumsy, tiresome things as shoes and stockings.

The sun had now risen, and the forest was no longer dark; and Maurice, looking back, saw that he had quite lost sight of the hut. He also, at the same moment, discovered, growing in great clusters, almost at his feet, dog violets, some as large as heart's-ease.

He gave a little cry of delight. He was very fond of flowers, and he decided to pick a great bunch to bring back to Cecile; in case she was a little vexed with him, she would be sure to be pacified by this offering.

He therefore sat down on the grass, and picked away at the violets until he had filled both his hands.

Then hearing, or fancying he heard, a little rustling in the grass, and thinking it might be Joe coming in search of him, he set off running again.

This time he was not so fortunate. A great thorn found its way into the little naked foot; the poor child gave a cry of pain, then sat plump down; he found that he could not walk another step. The day had now fully come, and the forest was alive with sights and sounds. Maurice was too young, too much of a baby to feel at all frightened. The idea of getting lost never even occurred to him. He said to himself that, as he could not possibly walk on his lame and swollen foot, he would wait quietly where he had planted himself, until Cecile or Joe or Toby found him out.

This quiet waiting resulted, as might have been expected, in the little fellow making up for the night's wakefulness, and soon he was sound asleep, his pretty head resting on his violets.

For several hours tired little Maurice slept. When at last he opened his eyes, a man was sitting by his side.

He looked at him for a moment sleepily and peacefully out of his velvet brown eyes; then sitting up, he exclaimed in a tone of joyful recognition:

"Anton!"

Anton—for it was indeed he—looked into the innocent face with his own guilty one, then nodded in the affirmative.

Maurice, having no idea of fearing Anton, knowing nothing about the purse of gold, and being on the whole rather prepossessed in his favor than otherwise, exclaimed:

"How did you come, Anton? did you find Cecile and Joe, and did they send you for me? and have I slept a long, long time, Anton? It is quite too late to begin a journey to-day?"

"'Tis about noon, lad," replied Anton; "quite the hottest time of the day; and I have not seen no Joe, nor no Cecile, though I wants to see 'em; I ha' been a-looking fur 'em ever since they turned tail in that shabby way in Paris. I has a little debt to settle wid 'em two, and I'd like to see 'em again."

"Oh! do you owe them money, and will you pay it? I am sure they'll be glad for that, for sometimes I hear Cecile say that she is afraid their money won't hold out, the journey is so very long. I am glad you owe 'em money, Anton; and as it is past noon, and they won't start to-day, we may as well go back to the hut at once. Oh! won't they be surprised ta see you, Anton?"

Anton remained silent for a moment, his head buried in his hands. He was evidently thinking hard, and once he was heard to mutter, "a lucky chance; a rare and lucky chance." Then he raised his head again and looked at Maurice.

"The others are in a hut, a hut in the forest, eh?"

"Oh, yes! quite a nice, snug little hut, and not so very far from here. We sleep on pine needles in the hut, and they are so soft and snug; and, Anton, I don't want to leave it. I like the forest, and I hate long, long walks; I'd rather stay in the hut,"

"How far away did you say it wor, lad?"

"Oh! not so very far away. I ran out quite early this morning, and I came down hill; and at last when I lost breath I stopped and gathered all these violets. Oh, they are withered—my poor violets! And then I ran a little bit and got this thorn into my foot, and after that I could walk no more. The hut can't be a great way off. Will you carry me back to it, Anton?"

Anton laughed.

"'Will I carry him?' did he say?" he exclaimed in a tone of some derision. "Well, wot next? I ain't strong enough to carry sech a big chap as you, my lad. No, no; but I'll tell you wot I'll do: I'll take you over to a comrade o' mine as is waiting for me jest outside the forest, quite close by. He's a bit of a doctor, and he'll take the thorn out of your foot; and while he's doing it, I'll run down to the hut and bring that big Joe o' yourn back. He'll carry you fine—he ain't a weakly chap like me."

"Poor Anton!" said little Maurice, "I forgot that you were weak. Yes, that's a very kind plan." And he stretched out his arms for Anton to carry him just the little distance to his comrade at the other side of the forest.



CHAPTER XIX.

THREE PLANS.

It took Anton but a few strides to get out of the forest, at the other side away from the hut. Here, on a neatly-made road, stood a caravan; and by the side of the caravan two men. These men could not speak a word of English, and even their French was so mixed with dialect that little Maurice, who by this time knew many words of real French, did not understand a word they said. This, however, all the better suited Anton's purpose. He had a short but impressive conversation with the man who seemed to have the greatest authority. Maurice was then given over into this man's care. Anton assured him that he would return as quickly as possible with Joe. And then the bad man plunged once more into the depths of the forest.