the whole scene had changed. she had closed her eyes in a deserted hut lying on a bed of pine needles. she had closed her eyes to the consciousness of maurice gone, of everything lost and over in her life. it seemed but a moment, but the working of an ugly dream, and she opened them again. where was she? the hut was gone, the pine-needle bed had vanished; instead she found herself in a pretty room, with dimity curtains hanging before latticed windows; she felt soft white sheets under her, and knew that she was lying in a little bed, in the prettiest child's cot, with dimity curtains fastened back from it also. the room in its freshness and whiteness and purity looked something like an english room, and from the open windows came in a soft, sweet scent of roses.
had cecile then gone back to england, and, if so, what english home had received her?
she was too tired, too peaceful, to think much just then. she closed her languid eyes, only knowing that she was comfortable and happy, and feeling that she did not care much about anything if only she might rest on forever in that delicious white bed.
then, for she was still very weak, she found herself with her thoughts wandering. she was back in england, she was in london. kind mrs. moseley had taken her in; kind mrs. moseley was taking great care of maurice and of her. then she fancied herself in a vast place of worship where everybody sang, and she heard the words of a very loud and joyful refrain:
"the angels stand on the hallelujah strand,
and sing their welcome home."
had she then got home? was this happy, restful place not even england? was all the dull and weary wandering over, and had she got home—to the best home—the home where jesus dwelt? she really thought it must be so, and this would account for the softness of this little bed, and the delicious purity of the beautiful room. yes, she heard the singing very distinctly; "welcome home" came over and over again to her ears. she opened her eyes. yes, surely this was heaven, and those were the angels singing. how soft and full and rich their voices sounded.
she tried to raise her head off her pillow, but this she found she could not manage. where she lay, however, she could see all over the small room. she was alone, with just the faint, sweet breath of roses fanning her cheeks, and that delicious music in the distance. yes, she certainly must be in the home of jesus, and soon he would come to see her, and she would talk with him face to face.
she remembered in a dim kind of way that she had gone to sleep in great trouble and perplexity. but there was no trouble lying on her heart now. she was in the home where no one had any trouble; and when she told jesus all her story, he would make everything right. just then a voice, singing the same sweet refrain, came along the passage. as it got near, the music ceased, the door softly opened, and a young woman with golden hair and the brightest of bright faces came softly in. seeing cecile with her eyes open, she went gladly up to the bed, and, bending over her, said in a full but gentle voice:
"ah! dear english little one, how glad i am that you are better!"
"yes, i'm quite well," answered cecile, in her feeble tone. then she added, looking up wistfully: "please, how soon may i see jesus?"
at these words the pleased expression vanished from the young woman's face. she looked at cecile in pity and alarm, and saying softly to herself, "ah! she isn't better, then," turned away with a sigh; but cecile lifted a feeble hand to detain her.
"please, i'm much better. i'm quite well," she said. "this is heaven, isn't it?"
"no," answered the young woman. she was less alarmed now, and she turned and gazed hard at the child. "no," she said, "we thought you were going to heaven. but i do believe you really are better. no, my dear little girl! this is very different from heaven. this is only a french farm; a farm in the landes—pretty enough! but still very different from heaven. you have been very ill, and have been lying on that little bed for the last fortnight, and we did fear that you'd die. we brought you here, and, thanks to my good mother-in-law and our doctor, we have, i do trust, brought you through, and now you must sleep and not talk any more."
"but please, ma'am, if this is a french farm, how do you speak english?"
"i am english by birth, child; though 'tis a long time now since i have seen my native land. not that i feel very english, for my good jean's country is my country, and i only spoke english to you because you don't know french. now, little girl, lie very still. i shall be back in a minute."
the young woman did come back in a minute, holding, of all people in the world, maurice by the hand.
maurice then, who cecile thought was quite lost, was back again, and cecile looked into his dear brown eyes, and got a kiss from his sweet baby lips. a grave, grave kiss from lips that trembled, and a grave look from eyes full of tears; for to little maurice his cecile was sadly changed; but the young woman with the bright hair would not allow him to linger now. she held a cup of some delicious cooling drink to the sick child's lips, and then sat down by her side until she slept, and this was the beginning of a gentle but slow recovery.
pretty young mme. malet sat most of the day in cecile's room, and maurice came in and out, and now and then an old woman, with an upright figure and french face, came and stood by the bedside and spoke softly and lovingly, but in a tone cecile could not understand, and a lovely little boy was brought in once a day by his proud young mother, and suffered to give cecile one kiss before he was taken away again. and the kindest care and the most nourishing food were always at hand for the poor little pilgrim, who lay herself in a very land of beulah of rest and thankfulness.
her memory was still very faint; her lost purse did not trouble her; even lovedy became but a distant possibility; all was rest and peace, and that dreadful day when she thought her heavenly guide had forsaken her had vanished forever from her gentle heart.
one afternoon, however, when mme. malet sat by the open window quietly knitting a long stocking, a disturbing thought came to cecile; not very disturbing, but still enough for her to start and ask anxiously:
"why doesn't joe ever come to see me?"
at these words a shade came over the bright face of the young wife and mother; she hesitated for a moment, then said, a trifle uneasily:
"i wouldn't trouble about joe just now, deary."
"oh! but i must," answered cecile. "how is it that i never missed him before? i do love joe. oh! don't tell me that anything bad has happened to my dear, dear joe."
"i don't know that anything bad has happened to him, dear. i trust not. i will tell you all i know. the night my mother-in-law and i found you in that little hut i saw a tall dark boy. he had gone to fetch the doctor for you, and he stood in the gloom, for we had very little light just then. all on a sudden he gave a cry, and ran to my mother-in-law, and threw his arms round her neck, and said strange words to her. but before she could answer him, or say one single sentence in reply, he just ran out of the hut and disappeared. then we brought you and maurice and toby home, and we have not heard one word of joe since, dear."
