mr. danvers was as good as his word and wrote by the next post to the french cousin. he wrote a pathetic and powerful appeal to this man, describing the destitute children in terms that might well move his heart. but whether it so happened that the french relation had no heart to be moved, whether he was weary of an uncongenial subject, or was ill, and so unable to reply—whatever the reason, good mr. danvers never got any answer to his letter.
meanwhile cecile and maurice went to school by day, and sometimes also by night. at school both children learned a great many things. cecile found out what geography was, and her teacher, who was a very good-natured young woman, did not refuse her earnest request to learn all she could about france.
cecile had long ago been taught by her own dead father to read, and she could write a very little. she was by no means what would be considered a smart child. her ideas came slowly—she took in gradually. there were latent powers of some strength in the little brain, and what she once learned she never forgot, but no amount of school teaching could come to cecile quickly. maurice, on the contrary, drank in his school accomplishments as greedily and easily as a little thirsty flower drinks in light and water. he found no difficulty in his lessons, and was soon quite the pride of the infant school where he was placed.
the change in his life was doing him good. he was a willful little creature, and the regular employment was taming him, and mrs. moseley's motherly care, joined to a slight degree of wholesome discipline, was subduing the little faults of selfishness which his previous life as cecile's sole charge could not but engender.
it is to be regretted that toby, hitherto, perhaps, the most perfect character of the three, should in these few weeks of prosperity degenerate the most. having no school to attend, and no care whatever on his mind, this dog decided to give himself up to enjoyment. the weather was most bitterly cold. it was quite unnecessary for him to accompany cecile and maurice to school. his education had long ago been finished. so he selected to stay in the warm kitchen, and lie as close to the stove as possible. he made dubious and uncertain friends with the cat. he slept a great deal, he ate a great deal. as the weeks flew on, he became fat, lazy-looking, and uninteresting. were it not for subsequent and previous conduct he would not have been a dog worth writing about. so bad is prosperity for some!
but prosperous days were not the will of their heavenly father for these little pilgrims just yet, and their brief and happy sojourn with kind mrs. moseley was to come to a rather sudden end.
cecile, believing fully in the good clergyman's words, was waiting patiently for that letter from france, which was to enable maurice, toby, and herself to travel there in the very best way. her little heart was at rest. during the six weeks she remained with mrs. moseley, she gained great strength both of body and mind.
she must find lovedy. but surely mr. danvers was right and if she had a grown person to go with her and her little brother, from how many perils would they not be saved? she waited, therefore, quite quietly for the letter that never came; meanwhile employing herself in learning all she could about france. she was more sure than ever now that lovedy was there, for something seemed to tell her that lovedy and susie were one. of course this beautiful susie had gone back to france, and once there, cecile would quickly find her. she had now a double delight and pleasure in the hope of finding lovedy joy. she would give her her mother's message, and her mother's precious purse of gold. but she could do more than that. lovedy's own mother was dead. but there was another woman who cared for lovedy with a mother's warm and tender heart. another woman who mourned for the lost susie she could never see, but for whom she kept a little room all warm and bright. cecile pictured over and over how tenderly she would tell this poor, wandering girl of the love waiting for her, and longing for her, and of how she herself would bring her back to mammie moseley.
things were in this state, and the children and their adopted parents were all very happy together, when the change that i have spoken of came.
it was a snowy and bleak day in february, and the little party were all at breakfast, when a quick and, it must be owned, very unfamiliar step was heard running up the attic stairs. the rope was pulled with a vigorous tug, and a postman's hand thrust in a letter.
"'tis that letter from foreign parts, as sure as sure, never welcome it," said moseley, swallowing his coffee with a great gulp, and rising to secure the rare missive.
cecile felt herself growing pale, and a lump rising in her throat. but mrs. moseley, seizing the letter, and turning it over, exclaimed excitedly:
"why, sakes alive, john, it ain't a foreign letter at all; it have the norwich post-mark on it. i do hope as there ain't no bad news of mother."
"well, open it and see, wife," answered the practical husband. the wife did so.
alas! her fears were confirmed. a very old mother down in the country was pronounced dying, and mrs. moseley must start without an hour's delay if she would see her alive.
then ensued bustle and confusion. john moseley was heard to mutter that it came at a queer ill-conwenient time, mr. danvers being away, and a deal more than or'nary put in his wife's hands. however, there was no help for it. the dying won't wait for other people's convenience. cecile helped mrs. moseley to pack her small carpet-bag. crying bitterly, the loving-hearted woman bade both children a tender good-by. if her mother really died, she would only remain for the funeral. at the farthest she would be back at the end of a week. in the meantime, cecile was to take care of moseley for her. by the twelve o'clock train she was off to norforkshire. she little guessed that those bright and sweet faces which had made her home so homelike for the last two months were not to greet her on her return. maurice cried bitterly at losing mammie moseley. cecile went to school with a strangely heavy heart. her only consolation was in the hope that her good friend would quickly return. but that hope was dashed to the ground the very next morning. for mrs. moseley, writing to her husband, informed him that her old mother had rallied; that the doctor thought she might live for a week or so longer, but that she had found her in so neglected and sad a condition that she had not the heart to leave her again. moseley must get someone to take up her church work for her, for she could not leave her mother while she lived.
it was on the very afternoon of this day that cecile, walking slowly home with maurice from school, and regretting very vehemently to her little brother the great loss they both had in the absence of dear, dear mammie moseley, was startled by a loud and frightened exclamation from her little brother.
"oh, cecile! oh, look, look!"
maurice pointed with an eager finger to a woman who, neatly dressed from head to foot in black, was walking in front of them.
"'tis—'tis aunt lydia purcell—'tis wicked aunt lydia purcell," said maurice.
cecile felt her very heart standing still; her breath seemed to leave her—her face felt cold. before she could stir a step or utter an exclamation the figure in black turned quickly and faced the children. no doubt who she was. no doubt whose cold gray eyes were fixed on them. cecile and maurice, huddling close together, gazed silently. aunt lydia came on. she looked at the little pair, but when she came up to them, passed on without a word or sign of apparent recognition.
"oh! come home, cecile, come home," said maurice.
they were now in the street where the moseleys lived, and as they turned in at the door, cecile looked round. lydia purcell was standing at the corner and watching them.
