all that long and sunny day maurice sat contentedly on a little stool in the doorway of the traveling caravan. his foot, which had been very painful, was now nicely and skillfully dressed. the frenchman, who did not know a word of english, had extracted a sharp and cruel thorn, and the little boy, in his delight at being free from pain, thanked him in the only way in his power. he gave him a very sweet baby kiss.
it so happened that the frenchman had a wife and a little lad waiting for him in the pyrenees. maurice reminded him of his own dark-eyed boy, and this sudden kiss won his heart. he determined to be good to the child. so first providing him with an excellent bowl of soup and a fresh roll, for his breakfast and dinner combined, he then gave him a seat in the door of the caravan, for he judged that as he could not amuse the little fellow by talking to him, he might by letting him see what he could of what was going on outside.
for a long time maurice sat still, then he grew impatient. he was no longer either in pain or sleepy, and he wanted to get home to cecile; he wanted to tell her his adventures, and to show her the violets which he had gathered that morning, and which, though now quite dead and withered, he still held in his little hot hand. why did not anton return? what was keeping joe? it was no distance at all back to the hut. of this he was sure. why, then, did not joe come? he felt a little cross as the hours went on, but it never even occurred to his baby mind to be frightened.
it was late in the evening when anton at last made his appearance, and alone. little maurice sprang off his stool to meet him.
"oh, anton, what a time you've been! and where's joe?"
"joe ain't coming to-night, young 'un," said anton roughly.
he entered the caravan with a weary step, and, throwing himself on a settle, demanded some supper in french of his companion.
maurice, unaccustomed to this mode of treatment, stood quite still for a moment, then, brushing the tears from his big brown eyes, he went up to anton and touched his arm.
"see," he said, "i can walk now. kind man there made my foot nearly well. you need not carry me, anton. but will you come back with me to the hut after you've had some supper?"
"no, that i won't," answered anton. "not a step 'ull you get me to stir again to-night. you sit down and don't bother."
"cross, nasty man," replied maurice passionately; "then i'll run away by myself, i will. i can walk now."
he ran to the door of the caravan; of course it took anton but a moment to overtake him, to catch him by his arm, and, shaking him violently, to lead him to an inner room, into which he flung the poor child, telling him roughly that he had better stay quiet and make no fuss, or it would be worse for him.
little maurice raised impotent hands, beating anton with all his small might. anton laughed derisively. he turned the key on the angry and aggrieved child and left him to his fate.
poor little maurice! it was his first real experience of the roughness of life. hitherto cecile had come between him and all hard times; hitherto, whatever hardships there were to bear, cecile had borne them. it seemed to be the natural law of life to little maurice that everyone should shield and shelter him.
he threw himself now on the dirty floor of the caravan and cried until he could cry no longer. oh, how he longed for cecile! how he repented of his foolish running away that morning! how he hated anton! but in vain were his tears and lamentations; no one came near him, and at last from utter weariness he stopped.
it was dark now, quite dark in the tiny inner room where anton had thrust him. strange to say, the darkness did not frighten the little fellow; on the contrary, it soothed him. night had really come. in the night it was natural to lie still and sleep; when people were asleep time passed quickly. maurice would go to sleep, and then in the morning surely, surely joe and cecile would find him and bring him home.
he lay down, curling himself up like a little dog, but tired as he was he could not sleep—not at first. he was nothing but a baby boy, but he had quite a retrospect or panorama passing before his eyes as he lay on the dirty caravan floor. he saw the old court at home; he saw the pretty farm of warren's grove; he saw that tiring day in london when it seemed to both cecile and himself that they should never anywhere get a lodging for the night; then he was back again with kind, with dear mrs. moseley, and she was telling to him and cecile those lovely, those charming stories about heaven.
"i always, always said as heaven would suit me better than south," sobbed the poor little boy. "i never did want to come south. i wished jesus the guide to take me to heaven. oh, i do want to go to heaven!"
over and over he repeated this wish aloud in the darkness, and its very utterance seemed to soothe him, for after a time he did really drop asleep.
he had not slept so very long when a hand touched him. the hand was gentle, the touch firm but quiet.
maurice awoke without any start and sat up. the frenchman was bending over him. he pointed to the open door of the room—to the open door of the caravan beyond.
"run—run away," he said. these were the only words of english he could master.
"run away," he repeated and now he carried the child to the open outer door. maurice understood; his face brightened; first kissing his deliverer, he then glided from his arms, ran down the steps of the caravan, and disappeared.
